


The Brain Without A Heart

by angstlover



Series: The Brain Without A Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Based on comments), Angst, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone is human and everyone has flaws, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7396015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/pseuds/angstlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John. It's been more than a month since we last spoke. I'm sorry for everything I did. SH</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is mainly for cathartic purposes. It helps to channel some of my depressive moods. That said, this fic is probably going to contain a lot of depressive and suicidal thoughts so huge trigger warning if that triggers you.
> 
> This is written mostly through Sherlock's pov. It is his perception of the events that occur so he doesn't know how John honestly feels or what he's thinking. But John is making it hard for Sherlock to understand

John. It's been more than a month since we last spoke. I'm sorry for everything I did. SH

I understand you're still angry at me. I don't expect you to forgive me. I hope you're doing well. SH

Triple murder. Possible serial killer. Could be dangerous. Coming? SH

Suspect is much cleverer than anticipated. Still can't solve it, need more data. Come if convenient. SH

Cracked the case. Had dinner at Angelo's. He asked about you. SH

There's no milk. SH

The flat is too quiet. SH

John, how are you? SH

If you no longer want me in your life, say the word. I'll stop pestering you with these texts. If that's what you want, I'd do it for you. Anything for you. SH

I'm sorry. SH 

\---------

Piss off. JW 

\---------

Sherlock wakes up to the usual silence of his flat. It's been a little more than a year since John and Mary's baby was stillborn, a year since Mary walked away from John's life, a year since John moved back to baker street before leaving without notice one month ago.

Sherlock had come home one evening to find the flat was empty of all of John's items and the man himself was nowhere in sight. No John making tea in the kitchen. No John sitting idly in his usual red sofa chair while watching crap telly. No John in the bedroom upstairs. Any traces of John having lived there was gone. He was never one to personalize his room decor but now the small alarm clock usually placed on the bedside was gone and the Sig Sauer was no longer hidden in the first drawer. All his jumpers and clothes was no longer in the wardrobe, save for the one Christmas jumper that Sherlock damaged during an experiment. The red and green pattern by the collar has faded into ugly yellow-orange patches as a result of acid burn. That was all Sherlock had left of him.

John was gone. 

Sherlock knew it was inevitable. He saw it coming. Their final few months of cohabitation was filled with growing tension and silence. 

John was hardly there, coming home very late at night, hours after his clinic duty ended. They hardly talked save for some necessary conversations born out of expected obligation from their supposed ‘friendship’. 

‘Anything in? I'm starving.’

‘I'm buying Chinese takeaway for dinner. Want anything?’

‘How was the case?’ 

Any potential for a long conversation would be cut short with a quick, noncommittal response.

‘Right.’

‘That's good.’

‘Right then, I'm knackered. Night.’

John was slipping through his fingertips and Sherlock was aware of it. And yet, there seems to be nothing he could do to stop it. What could he say? 

‘John pay more attention to me.’

‘Forget about Mary and your stillborn daughter. Be happy with me.’

No. Even someone as arrogant as him knows that would be an incredibly selfish thing to do. He loves John. Whatever could make John happy should make him happy. Even if that meant seeing John date and marry and have a family with another woman. 

And yet some parts of him is convinced that John loves him too. John never stopped grieving for his death. John had said Sherlock was his best friend, the best and wisest man he's ever met. Even though John had Mary, Sherlock saw John's hesitation upon his return from the dead, conflicted between returning to life at Baker street or staying with Mary. John chose the latter. But that hesitation...that meant _something_ , didn't it?

Deep down, Sherlock had hoped John would choose Baker street. His heart ached at the memory of the laughs they shared together over dinner table and the amused anger John throws at him when he plays violin at 3 am in the morning. He missed John. Every fiber of his being was shaking at the pain of John's absence.

_Why did you leave?_

\-------

John. I'm sorry. Please answer me. SH

I miss you. [UNSENT]


	2. Chapter 2

_ Why did you leave? _

_ What should have I done to make you stay? _

_ Would you ever forgive me? _

_Or will you erase me?_

Those same thoughts swirled in Sherlock's head. He opened his eyes for the first time that day as wakefulness took over. It was 4 pm.

Damn that. Why is it only 4 pm?

It didn't matter that more than half the day had gone by in his sleep. There was nothing for him to do. No cases to do, no experiments to conduct, no John to pester him to wake the hell up.

No John.

Still no John.

It was highly unlike him to have a normal night's sleep, let alone oversleep till 4 in the afternoon. And strangely, he wished he could still sleep. He craved the comfort of unconsciousness that only sleep could provide, the only thing that could stop the relentless barrage of emotional turmoil he can never seem to silence. The dread washed over him as soon as his mind collected itself from his slumber. God, he hated being awake.

Sherlock flipped to his side, pulling his duvet high over his head, keeping his eyes in relative darkness from the late afternoon glow that seeped through the curtain.

“Get out of bed, you lazy git.”

He wondered if that's what John would say if he were still here, with a voice filled with both exasperation and amusement. That was their typical routine, a concoction of pointless trivial bicker, childish laughter and adrenaline-filled adventure. That's what their life used to be. That's how, Sherlock presumes, John would have reacted to him staying in bed at 4pm. At least that's how it is if John had stayed, if he still considered Sherlock as his friend, if he still wanted Sherlock to be part of his life, if he still cared about Sherlock.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to count the elements of the periodic table.

Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium.

\---

_ ‘Sherlock, you're my best friend. You are one of the most important person in my life. I care about you. I'd stay with you, always.’ _

\---

Boron. Carbon. Nitrogen.

\---

_ ‘Yes, of course you're still my friend. I told you. I care about you. I won't leave you. No matter what happens. I'll stay with you through it all. I know how difficult it is, I've been through it before. I don't want you to have to face it alone like I did. There was nobody when I needed it most. So now, I'm here for you.’ _

_ \--- _

Oxygen. Fluorine. Neon.

\---

_ ‘It's difficult. And sometimes I may feel tired. But that doesn't mean I'm tired of  _ **_you_ ** _. You're my friend. I won't leave you. I just…. I need some rest.’ _

_ \--- _

Sodium. Magnesium. Aluminium.

\---

_ ‘I already told you I'm not leaving. I don't know what else to tell you to make you believe me, Sherlock.’ _

_ \--- _

Silicon. Phosphorous. Sulfur.

\---

Then why are you retreating? Why are you hardly home? Why are our conversations, which are usually so effortless and natural and comfortable, have now been replaced with awkward silence and minimal replies and… avoidance? 

\---

No. Don't. Concentrate on the elements.

Chlorine… Argon…

_ \--- _

_ ‘I won't walk away from you. Now can we just drop this please.’ _

_ \--- _

_ ‘Sherlock, can we not do this today? It's late. I'm knackered. Let me rest.’ _

_ \--- _

You were barely home John. This was the first and only conversation we had today-- 

Concentrate! Argon…. God what comes after argon?

\---

_ ‘Sherlock stop all of this. I have a job. I have friends, colleagues-- a life outside you. Sometimes I want to go for a pint with my friends. I need to keep myself preoccupied to cope with… look I said I won't leave you and I haven't. Doesn't that prove anything to you?’ _

_ \--- _

But you avoid me for most of the day. And when you come home, this is all we do. One conversation filled with repressed anger and tension.

I can deduce it, John. There's something you're not telling me. Something you're not being honest about. Why won't you tell me? 

\---

But I can't possibly ask him that. I know the truth that awaits. I think I do. I want John to be honest. But I know the honest answer is not something I can cope with. I don't want to lose him. 

But he's slipping through my fingers right before my eyes and I can't stop it.

\---

_ ‘I don't want to tell you the truth because I know I will hurt you. Why? Because the truth is, Sherlock, I want to leave. I hate that I want to, I didn't want to make your biggest fear come true, but damn it, the way you are these days, it makes me want to leave-- ’ _

_ \--- _

Sherlock grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged with excess violence as his body abruptly pulled into a crouched position on the bed. His scalp felt like it was burning from the sudden outburst. His heart raced, his breathing ragged, his body tingled from the insides out. A taste of salty water seeping through his lips made him realise that he was crying.

_ Stupid. Pathetic. Worthless. _

If he could just go back to sleep. If he could just do something to make the thoughts go away. To make the regret and hurt and despair disappear, even just for a while.

A fleeting thought reminded him of the syringe hidden neatly in a Moroccan case underneath his bed. He could make the pain disappear. He had the tools he needed, he had the cocaine, all he needed now was to do it.

No, he can't. He shouldn't.

If he went down that path, he can't stop. It was too dangerous. John would be disappointed if he knew. He couldn't risk it.

But does John even still care for him? Would it matter to John if he shoots up? Would John be disappointed, would John react at all?

Sherlock knew it was never John's intention to lie. ‘I'd never leave you.’ Perhaps John had meant it at the time. But he has changed his mind since then. Perhaps John doesn't care about him anymore. If he shoots up, if he overdosed, if he lived, if he died -- maybe it wouldn't matter to John at all. Sherlock was now merely just a person who John once knew. Nothing more, nothing less.

It's been a month since John moved out without notice.

It's been two months since John said he wanted to leave.

It's been seven months since they started to fall apart.

He hasn't heard anything from John for a month. Not one word.

Perhaps John does hate him.

Sherlock reached for the Moroccan case under his bed. The sight of the pristine syringe offered him a sense of comfort nothing else could give. It was wrong, and yet, ironically, a huge relief at the same time. The only thing that held promise to ease his pain away. His mind goes blank as his fingers caressed that old, familiar friend; the cold touch of pointed metal.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft was right. He should have listened. Caring is not an advantage.

The orange glow of evening sun cast a shadow of his crumpled silhouette. His heart still heavy and his eyes still wet.

What purpose does his life hold if he could no longer feel joy, if every moment was filled with fear and panic and regret and self hatred. What would it matter if he took his life if the only person who once cared about him, the one person he loved most, has now turned against him. John could be freed from the burden of his existence. Scotland yard no longer has to deal with the sociopathic freak telling them how to do their job. Mycroft no longer has to worry about the drug addict baby brother posing a threat to his position in the government. Mummy and daddy, well, they will definitely be glad that the one who is alive is the better, smarter Holmes sibling. They would not have to face the embarrassment of having a disappointing junkie son. The rest of the world, nobody liked him. Perhaps it was time to listen to them.

He tied a tourniquet around his arm and readied the cocaine solution. 7 per cent. No. He needed more. Much more.

He held the syringe in place, the pointed tip pressing with enough pressure for his skin to dent but not pierced. His hand was shaking. He took a deep breath and calmed his racing mind.

What was he waiting for? Why was he….afraid?

The syringe slipped between his shaky fingers and clattered down the floor. Sherlock stared wide-eyed at the fallen syringe. His chest heaving at every breath.

“God…”

A choked sob filled the silence. He tried to scream. He wanted to scream. But what came instead was the broken sound of his harsh breathing.

He couldn't do it. Deep down he still believed - or rather, hoped - that John would return. Eventually John would forgive him. And he needed to show John that he had been good. He couldn't afford to give John more reasons to justify leaving him.

God how stupid is he. To believe John still cares despite the staggering evidence that proved otherwise. How stupid and utterly pathetic.

\---

His phone vibrated on the bedside table for what seemed like minutes. Too long to be a text alert, so must be an incoming call then. He ignored the phone. He didn't want to talk to anyone today. Wrong, he needed someone to talk to, someone he felt he could trust.

He needed John. The warmth and comfort and safety that only John could offer.

But that would never happen again.

The buzzing finally came to a stop. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding back. A few seconds later his phone vibrated again, this time only in one short burst. He reached for it and opened the text.

 

From: Molly H.

_‘Hey Sherlock :) John came by earlier for a bit of coffee and he noticed something off with one of the corpses in the morgue. He said there were some suspicious marks that implied some sort of foul play. Official cause of death states heart attack. It doesn't seem to add up but I'm not sure. Don't want to involve the police prematurely and I thought this would be right up your street?’_

 

John dropped by to have a chat with Molly? So he's still in London. He's still in touch with Molly. And it's more than that, he dropped by to have coffee with her and probably a nice little chat too.

He still treats her as a friend. He didn't leave London. That meant it was never John's intention to abandon life in London; just the life in baker street. Life with Sherlock.

_I'll be there in one hour. SH_

Sherlock stared at his phone, his shaky thumb hovered over the ‘send’ command of his phone screen. His thoughts ran haphazardly without restraint. He knows he shouldn't send the next message. He knows better than to do that.

But he wanted to know.

_How's John? Your previous message implies you've been in touch with him. Is he still there? SH_

_‘No, John left earlier. He's good, I suppose. I thought he moved back with you after things with Mary didn't turn out well. I assumed you would know better about him than me. I've only met him twice the past month. Has anything happened?’_

_Nothing of significance to you. I'll see you later. SH_

_‘Sherlock, I can tell when you're not okay. You don't sound okay. Did anything happen between you two? And please don't lie to me.’_

Sherlock hesitated before finally sending the text.

_He moved out a month ago. I don't know where he has been. SH_

_‘Oh Sherlock… I'm so sorry. I didn't know. Haven't you heard from him at all?’_

_I don't need your pity. And no. SH_

_‘Is there anything I can do to help?’_

His fingers instinctively typed “No” before he had a change of heart. If there was anyone he knew he could trust, it was Molly. She helped him find a corpse to fake his death. Even with the very limited explanation he provided, she abided by his request without much question. He could trust her. Just for this one, final favour.

_If you could pass on this message to him, tell him I'm sorry. SH_

Sherlock waited anxiously for Molly's reply. Would she inquire further? Would she ask about what he's sorry about? God she must think he's pathetic. Any shred of admiration she ever had for him must have vanished into nothingness with that single message.

_‘Alright.’_

\---

The living room wall of baker street was decorated with pinned photos and handwritten notes and online printouts associated with the morgue corpse case, each piece of paper physically connected to the next with a red thread to depict possible correlations. Molly (or John) was right about their suspicion. The case was a clever one; injected poison to induce cardiac arrest perfectly timed at a target whose weak health would make sudden cardiac death seem perfectly plausible. Apparently the chronic illness gave the victim a very limited life expectancy that she miraculously exceeded for the past ten years, even surviving through three separate occasions of cardiac arrest. Financial, physical and emotional burden was overwhelming the victim's family but moral obligation forced them to keep her alive. Until one of them decided that it was a good time to grief, get it all done and over with.

Sherlock didn't realize how long he had been smiling while staring at the wall. The rush of having solved a puzzle was exhilarating. How had he forgotten this feeling? This, he thought, was yet another empirical evidence of his brilliance. His clever mind, far superior to most people. The one thing he liked about himself. It made him useful. It made him valuable, an indispensable tool for the goldfish-brained general public.

The phone in his pocket pinged. Must be Lestrade, perfect timing. He pulled out the phone in the haste of his own excitement but his breath caught in his throat as soon as he saw the notification on the screen.

A text from John.

  
_'If you need to tell me something you tell it yourself or you don't but don't put Molly in this.'_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leave a comment and share your thoughts, I'd love to hear it :)


	4. Chapter 4

 

Science of deduction. New blog entry.

Posted on June 2nd, 11.30 pm.

_Due to circumstances, I will no longer be providing consultation services. Apologies for the inconvenience._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

_\---_

He laid in bed, willing his eyes to fall back to sleep. He didn't know what day it was. He didn't know how many days it's been since he last ate a proper meal. It's ok though, he's not hungry. Strange how his body doesn't seem to be reacting to the basic primal need to eat. Starving himself wasn't a deliberate act, he was just… not hungry, simple as that. He's not hungry so he didn't want to eat.

Three knocks on his bedroom door.

“Sherlock, you still haven't eaten the breakfast I made you, it's almost 5 pm.” Mrs Hudson's voice sounded soft behind the closed door.

“Not hungry.” He wanted to sound intimidating but it ended up hoarse and weak instead.

“Sherlock dear, you haven't eaten anything in the last 3 days. You haven't even left your room.”

“Busy. Got a case to solve.”

He knew that even Mrs Hudson could see through the lie. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He didn't matter.

“You still need to eat dear. You've grown quite thin.”

He ignored her.

She should just let him be. He was fine. Even if he didn't eat, even if he starved, even if he was all skin and bones, even if he passes out, even if he died - it was still fine.

He didn't care.

“Sherlock?”

The silence stretches on and eventually he hears her footsteps walking away.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. Having people around is so tedious. At least he was alone again now.

That's all his life was these days. Waking up only to wish he was still asleep. Laying in bed until night comes, willing himself to fall back to sleep, sometimes he would succeed, sometimes he just stares blankly at the opposite wall. When he finally wakes it would be around 7 pm. Gets up, wash his face, shave, shampoo his hair, brush his teeth, wears a clean set of pyjamas and topping it off with a dressing gown. There was no purpose in putting on his usual tailored suit. It was already night. He was not going to go out. There was no place to go, nothing to do, nothing he wanted to do. It was just him and his empty flat. Waiting for the night so he could sleep again. Sometimes a smoke or two could take away the dullness for a short while. But the next day, the same routine would repeat.

Seconds passed, minutes passed, hours passed.

Waiting, waiting, waiting…

Waiting for what, he doesn't know. Perhaps nothingness.

What was the purpose of a life like this?

People would say every life is worth living.

But some lives are just inherently worthless.

_I am the latter._

 

_\---_

FROM: DI G. Lestrade

_‘Remember the poisoned corpse case? Well I was away during the time so I left the work to Donovan, gave her all the insights you told me. Get this, that really left a good impression on her, they're promoting her into Detective Inspector. She's over the moon, she's popping champagne bottles all night long yesterday. Said she'd throw a celebration again on Sunday and insisted that you be invited. The guest of honour, she calls you.’_

_Celebrations, not really my area. Tell her congratulations. SH_

_‘Oh c'mon Sherlock, you're the guest of honour! I can't believe she actually said that, she must be going mental with all these happiness. It's just a small celebration, me, John, DI Dimmock and a couple of others. People you know. I know you are not fond of big crowds. What do you say?’_

John was going to be there. He could use this opportunity. He could say he wasn't there to see John, it was for Donovan, his (maybe) friend and occasional colleague, he's there as her friend to celebrate her job promotion. Not as an excuse to see John.

_What does that matter, he won't care whether you're there or not._

Sherlock clenched his eyes at the thought. No matter how desperately he wanted to see John, there was no point if his presence wasn't welcomed by the one person he cared most.

If he had any decency at all, he should do John a favour and remove himself from John's life. He shouldn't go.

_Fine. Text me the address. SH_

_‘Perfect, see you there!’_

 

A mix of relief and self-loathing hammered through his mind almost immediately.

This was his chance to see John again. To get a glimpse of how John is doing. Perhaps if they met face to face, John would talk to him, even if it was circumstance that forced him to.

Or perhaps it would remind John that he once cared about Sherlock, and John would come to his senses and they'd talk like they previously did, with ease and effortless domesticity. And John will realize how much he misses Sherlock and he'll move back to baker street anytime soon and they'd live together again.

Sherlock barks out a humorless laugh.

All that sentiment really has made him stupid. Still stubbornly hanging on to false hope in spite of countless evidence that proved how wrong he was.

John wasn't some helpless soul struggling with depression or PTSD. Logically, it was perfectly reasonable to think John was in a battle with his mind. The deceit of his assassin wife, the loss of his child; the life and happy family that John thought he would have was ripped away from him without mercy. And all that's left was Sherlock. Barely a consolation prize.

Sherlock had once thought he could be. Give John the adventure, the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of the risk, jokes and laughter during post-case dinner, trivial banter about milk or body parts in the fridge, watching and criticizing crap telly together. He thought he could give John all that and beneath it all the love he is capable of giving. All for John. Anything for John. He thought it could be enough.

Because he thought John felt the same. Underneath the silence and unspoken words, he thought John loved him too.

 

_‘You were the best and wisest man I've ever met.’_

_‘Of course you are. You're my best friend.’_

_‘I was so alone and I owe you so much.’_

 

But none of it is true. Not anymore.

Sherlock knew, he had heard from Molly and Lestrade and even Mrs Hudson, that John was perfectly alright. John went to Bart's to have a friendly chat with Molly. Probably had a pint or two with Lestrade on some days. A couple of days prior Mrs Hudson had told him that John came for a late breakfast at Speedy’s.

“He seems happy,” she had said. “I miss him here but it's better for him there, he seems happier, he was making jokes the entire time. I think he's met someone, a bloke, lovely story. Seems very fond of him. John deserves it to be honest, after all the things he'd been through. With Mary and the baby.”

Hearing that felt like a sharp stab through his chest.

John was fine. More than fine. John was happy.

He had shut Sherlock out of his life. And he was happy.

He didn't miss Sherlock.

Then all those times John had said those sweet things, all the times they had shared stolen glances, shared their laughter - he wondered if it had meant anything to John. Was he so worthless that John could throw it all away and not feel a single ounce of regret? 

 

Sunday rolled by and with a heavy heart Sherlock arrived at Donovan's apartment. He stood at the doorstep. His heart hammered in his chest, his hands clenched into a fist to hide the fact that it won't stop shaking. Anxiety and panic threatened to rise at the thought that John was inside. He flinched when the door was suddenly open and quickly put on his usual mask of cold nonchalance as he met eyes with Donovan who was clearly euphoric and slightly drunk. She had two maybe three glasses, he deduced.

“Come in! We've been waiting for you, my guest of honour.”

As he took a step inside, the rest of her living room came into vision. Lestrade was here, and surprisingly Molly too, several other people from Scotland Yard and some faces he couldn't recognize he presumes is Donovan's friends outside the Met. His eyes continued to scan the room and there by the small coffee table, stood John amongst the crowd.

This was it.

John is here.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Writing this and reading your comments have really helped me deal with my depression, so thank you so much for leaving kudos and sharing your comments and all your support.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock trudged awkwardly around Donovan's living room, not really knowing what he was supposed to do. There were many people there but not enough to make a crowd. He usually hates crowd but this time he finds himself wishing there were more people. That way he could be hidden amongst the crowd, too many people for anyone to notice where he was or what he was doing. He could observe everyone from one corner and nobody would notice him.

But there were only nine people there  and even in a relatively small flat, the room was still too spacious. He felt visible.

Vulnerable.  

John was there in the same room as him. John, in the flesh, after a month of complete silence and disappearance, now John was right there before his eyes. And he was in John's vicinity.

That meant John could see him, see what he's doing, see his sadness, see past his facade, see his awkwardness. It was terrifying.

But John didn't see. He didn't turn to look or glance, his gaze was focused on Molly and Greg and the crowd as he shares a story, a funny story apparently judging by how animated he sounded. There was nothing off about John's persona. He sounded very much like he usually did back when they were flatmates sharing inside jokes about Mycroft's cake eating habits. John, by all accounts, was happy.

Except this time Sherlock was no longer his audience. John's laughter and jokes and stories was not for Sherlock to hear. All he got was the sight John's back staring coldly at him.

He was nobody.

 

“-- was amazing. And to be honest I never thought I'd enjoy theatre this much. Had it not been for Frederick I would never have thought of watching a theatre play, let alone meet Sir Ian bloody Mckellen at a pub.” John chirped and the crowd bursts into laughter.

“Are you sure it was Ian Mckellen-- _the_ Ian Mckellen?” Lestrade teased, clearly amused by the story. “Maybe it was actually just some random old man.”

The crowd erupts again and John was too, trying to hold back his laughter while he took another sip of scotch.

“Look I was drunk but I wasn't _that_ drunk. Frederick can testify for me. I swear to god it was Ian bloody Mckellen.”

Sherlock shuffled closer to the crowd, closer to John, as they continued on with the story. Perhaps if he assimilated himself into the crowd, they would take him in, acknowledge his presence.

He wanted to say something, a reply, a reaction, an addition-- something to place his spot in the conversation. But he didn't know what. What exactly were they talking about? Something about theatre or Ian something… god why didn't he have a wider knowledge about these things. It was useless for The Work, that he knew. But perhaps it was that singular-focused mind of his that drove John into boredom. John enjoyed other things, other activities beyond the crime adventure thrill he provided. Dinner dates, blockbuster films, crap telly, sports; all of which were things Sherlock held no opinions of.

It was his own fault. Of course John grew bored of him.

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly and attempted at the conversation. “Who…” His voice was barely audible, even to his own surprise.

He tried again. “Who's Ian Mckellen?”

He waited. His heart pounding heavily in his chest. It must have only been a few seconds but it felt like time dragged on for minutes.

“Famous actor.” John stated in a matter-of-fact manner. He didn't turn his body, merely tilted his head slightly but his eyes were fixed on the blank space in front of him.

He was avoiding any possibility of eye contact with Sherlock.

"Oh, right." Sherlock acknowledged.

He could feel his breath constrict at the coldness of John's persona.

_But at least he's talking to you. He acknowledges your presence._

Maybe this was his opportunity to break the ice, ask John more questions, be interested in the conversation, be part of it and eventually John will speak to him again.

“What was the play--”

“Right so anyway,” John cuts in almost simultaneously, smile returned on his face as he leaned forward towards the crowd and continued his story. “Frederick took a photo of me with Ian but the only photo he took turned out so shaky, neither of our face was recognizable so I told him he owed me two more dinners.”

Sherlock let out a shaky breath closed his eyes. So that confirmed it. John had answered him merely because it would be rude not to. That's all that was. John still didn't want to speak to him, didn't want to see him.

He was just a random bystander to John. Not a friend. Not an acquaintance.

He's nothing.

He took a step back and accidentally steps on someone else's foot, spilling the drink he held onto his shirt.

“Oh god-- sorry.” He placed his paper cup and fumbled a little before deciding to head for the bathroom.

He locked the door and pulled out several sheets of tissue paper, dabbing it on the soaked areas of his shirt. He could practically hear his heart racing and regret sinking in.

_Stupid. Stupid!_

How could he be so dense? John had consistently showed he wanted no contact with him and yet he still kept thinking, kept hoping, that John would turn his mind around and what, realize that John misses him. 

Pathetic.

It was never about Mary or the loss of his baby. All this time Sherlock had secretly hoped that was the reason John had been withdrawn. Because he needed space.

But Sherlock knew. He should've known. It wasn't space that John needed, no, John didn't need space because he had been perfectly alright. John was capable of laughing and smiling and going on dates and being happy.

It was just Sherlock who John rejected.Just Sherlock who John needed space away from.

 

The white noise of the rushing tap water snapped him out of his thoughts and he immediately cupped the cold water in his hands, splashing it onto his face.

He couldn't breathe. He needed to calm down. He couldn't do this. It was too much. Seeing John happy, seeing John act with complete indifference towards him, seeing John smile and laugh and joke while simultaneously treating him like he wasn't even there.

It was too much.

Too overwhelming.

Sherlock took another sheet of tissue and wiped his face. He exited the bathroom and strode quickly to get his coat and out the front door. He didn't look to see the room, or if anyone noticed him leave or if anyone tired to stop him. He didn't wait to see. He simply walked out the door and onto the streets, feeling a mix of guilt towards Donovan, heartbroken about John, and relief for himself.

 

“Wait, wait, wait!” Minutes later, he hears someone's voice approaching him.

Sherlock instinctively turned to find Molly running after him, not too far behind.

“What are you doing? Why are you--” she paused, panting, still out of breath from the run, and took in a lungful of air and continued. “Why are you leaving? You can't leave early again.”

“Again?” Sherlock furrows his brows.

“I saw you leave early. During John and Mary's wedding. I won't let you go again this time. You're not alone Sherlock. You don't have to be alone.”

Sherlock considers her for a moment but it was all pointless in the end. He didn't belong there, he knew that much.

“For the sake of Donovan's celebration and everyone there, I would beg to differ.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Besides, crowds and parties, not really my area.”

“This is about John, isn't it?”

Sherlock's jaw clenched, his expression encompassing vulnerability. Briefly. Very briefly, and soon after his mask was put on again.

“Don't lie to me Sherlock. I told you. I can see you look sad when you think he can't see you.”

Sherlock sighs. “John doesn't want me here. Suffice to say I have enough evidence to conclude that he, in fact, hates me. And for whatever reason it may be, I have reason to believe he has every right to do so. I do not hold it against him. I'm well aware of my incapabilities. It's the reason I don't have friends.”

“You're wrong,” her eyes fixed on him. “He cares about you. You're his friend, of course he doesn't hate you.”

“How would you know?”

“Because he told me.” She sounded resolute. “He told me, a few months ago, he came to visit me at Barts, he was worried about you but he felt helpless. He didn't know what to do or how to help. But he cares about you. He does.”

Tears threatened to well up in his eyes. He clenched his eyes shut. He couldn't cry. Not in public. Not in front of Molly.

“No. You're wrong.”

Damn her. Why would she say these things. It was everything he wanted to hear, everything he had wished for and yet, he couldn't believe a single word of it.

John left without notice, ignored his texts, ignored his presence. Any attempts Sherlock had made was met with cold silence or hostility.

How could he honestly believe John still cared.

“I don't know what else to tell you to make you believe me,” she adds. “But he does, Sherlock, he cares.”

“He _did._ ” Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Not anymore.”

He turned his back towards her as he blinked back hot tears. He continued walking, one foot after another, focusing his attention on his stride, on the texture of the pavement beneath his feet, on the smudge on his shoes, on anything and nothing at the same time. He couldn't bear to look back.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you think :)


	6. Chapter 6

“Ever since moving back to baker street, I've stopped having nightmares. It's all thanks to you, Sherlock. ”

\---

“Things with Mary and my child… that was difficult for me. But it's fine, it's alright now. Being here with you, it makes things alright.”

\---

“I'm not good with this sort of stuff, you know, but you've helped me through so much. Even if you're not aware of it, Sherlock, but you have. You're my friend. You mean more to me than you know.”

\---

“When you left for two years, and again when you were about to go off on the eastern Europe mission, that's when I realize I couldn't lose you again. I realize how important you are to me.” 

\---

“I can't bear to imagine what my life would be without you. Just thinking about it, that I could lose you again, or if you had died somewhere in Europe or died of overdose on the plane, my stomach turns into knots. The thought of not having you in my life, I don't even want to imagine that.”

\---

“You are one of the most important person in my life. I care about you, Sherlock.”

\---

“I would never abandon you. I'll stay here, by your side, always.” 

\---

“You're my friend. No, more than that, you are different from the rest. You're not like Greg,or Molly or Sholto or Mike. You mean much more to me than just normal friends.”

_ Then what am I? _

“You're my best friend.”

John smiled at him, an expression of comfort and gentleness. A sincere smile that warmed his heart.

Sherlock felt safe. In the midst of his stormy mind, he could seek refuge in John's kindness.

_ 'My best friend.' _

He was important. Even when he hated himself, when he wished to be numb, to not feel anything, to sleep, to die; there was still something he could hold onto and that was John. To John, he was important. He was loved.

To think that the person he loves most in the world would love him back. For once in his life, Sherlock thinks he finally felt what true happiness was like. If only he could eternalize that moment, to stop time before the doubts and fears and paranoia brought upon by his messed up mind threatens to ruin what he had.

For every instance John tells him he loves him, the fear of losing John grew bigger. Because although John loves him now, his constant self doubt and depressive moods will push John over the edge eventually.

John is patient. But still only human. John would get tired of him. John would leave. He can't bear the thought of John leaving.

It terrified him. John can't leave. He needed John.

“I won't leave you, Sherlock. I'll never leave you. You're my friend. I'm here for you.”

_ John is here for me. John will stay. _

 

The soft susurrus of the afternoon's  bustle outside rouse Sherlock from his sleep.

For a brief moment, his heart felt light. Everything was okay. His still sluggish mind was at ease.

But as wakefulness took over, the pain of reality sets in.

John still hated him.

Those sweet words, the hopeful promises he had heard John say, it was all just a distant memory now. Just a dream.

He no longer had John. No longer the target of John's affection.

_ “Because Sherlock, you - the way you are - is what makes me want to leave!” _

Those words rang loudest in his head, repeating itself in a never-ending loop. A constant reaffirmation that John no longer wanted him. John was tired of him. It was his fault. He had pushed John too far.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut and curled into his body.

God he's so stupid. Why the fuck was he so stupid.

Why did he have to have that dream? Why did he have to need John this much? Why did he have to miss John this much?

_ And why did you leave me, John? _

_ You said you'll always be here. You promised me. _

Pathetic. God was he pathetic and not a day went by that he didn't loathe himself for it.

Mycroft was right. He should've listened. He shouldn't have allowed himself to care.

Except he doesn't regret caring. Not for John. He'd do anything for John, anything to make John happy. He was glad to have found John in his life. He would never want to give it away. He loved John.

He had let his own depression and fears take him over. He should've stopped himself, pretended he was okay, he shouldn't have been so honest and thrown all his burdens to John. If he had behaved better perhaps John wouldn't leave and John would still be living with him today. They would be making inappropriate jokes at a crime scene, sharing inside laughter, eating takeaway dinner while watching crap telly together. He wouldn't be alone.

In the end, it was his own fault.

\---

FROM: Molly Hooper

_ ‘Everyone asked about you. They were wondering why you left. I didn't tell them anything, I didn't think it was my place to speak on your behalf.’ _

_ There was no reason. There were plenty of people there. I didn't belong. My absence hardly made a difference. Besides John was clearly displeased to see me. I did everyone a favour by leaving. SH _

_ ‘Were you there just for John?’ _

He didn't answer.

_ ‘Sherlock, I don't understand. What happened between you and John?’ _

_ I don't know. Nothing. Everything. It doesn't matter. I don't blame him. The fault lies solely on me. John did nothing wrong. Whatever resentment he has towards me is perfectly justified. SH _

_ 'Sherlock, whatever you've done it's fixable, but you really need to sort this out with John, because to be honest with you, I don't know much about your relationship, I know you two are close and you solve crimes together but I can't say for sure what's the depth of your relationship... I would like to help you but I don't know enough about what happened. Did you two have a fight?’ _

_ Nothing of the sort. It was just me. My mind, it's not functioning properly and I don't know why. Whatever the reason, it went on for too long. He eventually grew tired of it. SH _

 

_ ‘Of all people you should know John is a good person and he would never hurt you or go away without explanation. Did he say anything to you?’ _

_ The last thing he said to me was that  _ **_I_ ** _ made him want to leave. Next thing I knew he was gone the following day. He never spoke to me since, save for the time I asked you to deliver a message to him. He did reply then. Suffice to say my request had only worsened things. He was furious at me for involving you. And yet any attempts I made on my own were either ignored or blocked. He couldn't bear to look at me at Donovan's party. My existence alone is a burden to him. I should've taken the hint sooner. And with all that knowledge, I find it extremely difficult to believe the notion that John still cares about me. Perhaps he did at one point. But not anymore. SH _

There was a long pause before his phone buzzed again from Molly's incoming text.

_ ‘Oh god, I'm so sorry Sherlock. I had no idea. He shouldn't blame you for involving me, I did it because I wanted to. I'll sort it out with him.’ _

_ Please don't. Any mention of me will only infuriate him further. He wants space away from me, I'll give him that. SH _

_ ‘Even so, I know he still cares about you. Based on all the things he had said about you in the past and how close you two were, it seems impossible that he would ever hate you. Just please trust me on this. He'll come around. I'm sure he will.’ _

Except he wouldn't, would he? Sherlock wanted so badly to believe that John would change his mind and talk to him again and maybe one day even move back in again. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. And people would gossip about them being a couple because of how close they appeared and they would laugh about it but neither will correct it. Because they both liked being called a couple. They liked that people think they look like a couple. It was unspoken yet sweet.

But deep down he knew that it would never happen. That chapter was over and John didn't want to look back. No matter how much Sherlock wanted it and craved for it, it couldn't change the fact that John no longer wanted him.

And yet a little part of him still clung on to Molly's words.

His lips quirked into a hollow smile as tear drops fell from his cheeks.

Stupid. Pathetic. Useless.

The same words echoed in his head for seconds and minutes and hours, his mind at war with itself, a constant battle of contradictory thoughts.

He wished people would care, and yet he wanted to be alone.

He craved for a distraction, and yet he wanted nothing more than to waste away in slumber.

Everything was too much.

And it became more and more difficult to resist the temptation of losing himself in a seven percent cocaine solution.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I try to write this daily (for you and also for myself because it helps me too) but this update is one day late, sorry. Anyway, thank you for reading and share me your thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

The bright glow of his phone screen illuminated his features amid the dark flat. Sherlock lay on the sofa with his legs curled up to his feet and his back facing the empty living room. He didn't bother to turn on most of the lights. It felt safer in the dark.

A syringe and a small bag of cocaine sat on the coffee table, as if waiting for him.

Ridiculous. It's an inanimate object, it doesn't have will nor consciousness to conjure up such an intent.

But it did make him feel safe. In spite of it's self destructive nature, the cocaine felt like a safety net he knew he could rely on.

He didn't want to do it. He wished he would do it, just so his mind could be silenced and he could be freed from his own never-ending maelstrom of emotions. There was something about the extent of self destruction he's willing to risk, and his own complete indifference towards it that unnerved him. He knew it was unnatural to crave so desperately for the destruction of his own being. And yet, he wanted to see himself burn. If something was so worthless and useless and disposable, logically it would make sense to get rid of it. To get rid of him.

Right that instant he could waste away his mind with drugs should he decide to do so. That liberty was what made him feel safe. And why the cocaine was his ally.

The time ticks on.   
_ Inject it. Or wait till later. _ __  
_ Your existence is pointless. End it now. _ __  
_ But why hurry? _ __  
_ John hates you. _ __  
_ Molly said he doesn't. _ __  
_ But he won't even look at you. _ __  
_ Shoot up now. _ __  
_ But he'd been clean, don't relapse. _ _  
_ __ Not yet.

_ Just wait. _

_ Why wait. _

What was he waiting for?

Sherlock continued to stare blankly at his phone screen. It was his only connection to the rest of the world, his only connection to Molly and hence John.

It's been more than a month since John cut him off from his life. A few days after Donovan's party, Sherlock had tried to message John again.

_ Hi John. I hope you're doing well. How are things? SH _

He waited anxiously for minutes and hours and days. He checked his phone more frequently than necessary, in the off chance that perhaps John had replied. But days went on and still nothing.

So it was true, what he thought. John truly didn't want him anymore. It wasn't just his insecurity or paranoia playing tricks at him.

Perhaps to John, he was not a friend or acquaintance or even a stranger on the street that John would be friendly towards.

He wasn't a stranger. He was nobody. He was the thing that John hates.

That's all he was.

He began to drift into sleep when his phone, clutched safely on his chest, buzzed and jolted him back into consciousness.

Two messages. One from Molly and the other from Lestrade.

He opens the one from Molly first.

_ ‘I talked to John, I told him it was my decision that I wanted to help you. He's upset that you told me what you wanted to tell him. He's quite angry about that… but he feels sorry too. He said he didn't want to be upset about it and he needed time to think it through, and he wanted to apologize for the way he reacted to you that time.’ _

No amount of apology could lessen the pain. Not that he didn't forgive John. He never blamed John to start with.

But it was the fact that John didn't want to be upset. That suggests John was aware it was too harsh a punishment to react with anger, but in spite of that, his true feelings still reflected resentment.

John hated him.

John was surprised by his own hatred towards him and that was why it was difficult for John to accept it. To admit to himself that he was capable of hating Sherlock.

So instead of facing it, John decides to run? To ignore him instead?

_ Or perhaps it's much simpler than that. John hates you. End of story. He hates you because you're too much. _

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. He didn't know what to believe.

He opened the text from Lestrade.

_ ‘Just wanted to check up on you. Haven't heard much from you lately, I've got loads of funny cases I think you'd like. Interested?’ _

Lestrade noticed his silence. Much to Sherlock's surprise he actually found it sweet.

_ Can't. Busy. SH _

_ ‘How can you be busy, you've got nothing on. You said it yourself on your website, which, by the way, is filled with quite a lot of comments you might want to check out.’ _

So he did. There were about 57 comments on his latest post announcing the blog's temporary closure, which was a lot considering his other most popular post, 123 Types of Tobacco Ash, had only seven.

\---

_ Anonymous: What happened? Did he die again? _

_ Anonymous: If you're still reading this Mr Holmes please reply my private message, I need to know if I've accidentally married my own brother!!! _

_ Anonymous: What's going on? I'm kind of worried about him now…. _

_ Anonymous: Mr Holmes I've been a fan of your website long before you were famous, your posts are insightful. Hope you'll come back again! _

_ Anonymous: Can anyone confirm if he's dead or alive?? I'm very confused. _

_ Mike Stamford: If any of you are worried, I suggest you leave a message to John Watson's website. They're really close, John should know :) _

He exhaled a shaky breath. Why was the mere mention of John's name enough to cause him such distress? His heart began to race and that overwhelming desire to off himself was there again.

What he needed and craved was within his reach. Just one injection into his vein, and he could be free. He wouldn't have to feel anything besides the effects of the drug flowing through his body. Just one hit.

He wanted it.

And it terrified him.

His thumb scrambled on impulse in an effort to find a distraction to snap him out of his thoughts, scrolling down the comments section only to catch a glimpse of a comment made by John. His heart stopped.

He reassured himself as he scrolled back to John's comment. It was a reply to Mike.

_ John H. Watson: He's alright. He's not his best, but he's safe. We tried to contact him again and we're still waiting for him to reply. _

Comment posted three weeks ago.

\---

That angered him. To see John say such things, portraying himself as the caring friend even though it was John who had shut him out.

‘Tried to contact him again’? He hadn't received a single reply from John for the past five weeks, let alone a thoughtful text asking about his well-being. How would John know if he was safe if John won't even speak to him. He could be dead right this instant with cocaine running rampage in his body and John would not even bother to find out on his own. It infuriated him that John would claim to care even though his actions towards Sherlock was anything but.

And yet a big part of him loathed himself for being angry at John. John was a good friend, John  _ did  _ care for him and had tried to help him. Despite having his own personal struggles – facing the fallout of his child's death and losing his wife – John too was facing immense hardship but still he tried to be there for Sherlock.

And Sherlock pushed him too far.

It was his own fault–

_ ‘Sherlock, are you still there?’ _ The message notification brought his phone back to life.

How long had he been lost in thoughts?

I told you I don't want to take any case. SH

_ ‘Look, to be honest, I'm worried about you, you seem out of it lately. Are you using again?’ _

_ Even if I did, it's an easy enough lie to say I didn't. Really Lestrade, I never thought you'd stoop to Anderson's level of stupidity. SH _

His lips pulled into a smirk. It was terrible that he was proud of his insult but seeing those words in text felt like he saw a glimpse of his old self again. He missed that.

_ ‘That's good. That means you haven't. I know you well enough to see through your tricks. Alright I have to go now, I'll drop by baker street tomorrow to show you the case file I'm working on.’ _

_ I didn't say you could drop by. SH _

_ ‘I wasn't asking ;)’ _

God, Lestrade… emojis, really, at his age…

Though to be fairly honest, it wasn't so much condescension as it was amusement that Sherlock felt. Lestrade’s persistence was rather endearing.

And somehow, it felt nice to have something to wake up for, even if it was just a visit by the DI.

\---

"You look thin," Lestrade said as he enters the doorway.

"Yes." Sherlock dismissed.

Lestrade took in the sight of the flat, observing the lack of experimental apparatus in the kitchen or wall of post-it case notes and the general cleanliness of the flat which suggests absence of any Sherlock typical activities. He took another step forward and noticed the floors littered with strands of ebony curls. 

Significant hair fall. Weight loss. Sherlock’s atypical disinterest in cases. His overly withdrawn behaviour, even by his standard.

Lestrade felt his heart sank out of sympathy for the man standing before him. The reminder that Sherlock was human too. Flesh and blood, heart and soul. He was breakable too, just like everyone else.

"So," Lestrade clears his throat.

“Right, your case, what is it this time?” 

“Before we get to that let’s get straight to why I’m  _ really  _ here,” Lestrade’s voice changed into a serious tone. "What's been going on with you and John?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly.

He didn't want people to know because it was pathetic.  _ He  _ was pathetic.

But all his thoughts and all his fears and despair had been bottling up inside him and now it was threatening to explode. He couldn't take it anymore. The thought of relief he'd feel if he could just tell someone...

"John left the flat about a month ago. I had come home and all of his things were already gone. He had begun to stop talking – " Sherlock choked on his breath. He realized he could feel tears on his cheeks. His head ducked, refusing to meet eyes with Lestrade.

God Lestrade must think he's so fucking pathetic.

He swallowed his throat. "He had begun to stop talking since about two or three months ago. He didn't ignore me completely back then, he still uh... he acknowledges me and he still greeted me. But that's as far as it goes. Most of the day he's out and he doesn't reply even if I text him."

 

_ John, interesting case, we'd love this. One of Sholto's ex recruits. What time do you end work? Meet me at Highgate station. SH _

_ Need to gather more evidence, your assistance would be great. Shouldn't your clinic duty be done by now? Coming? SH _

_ Met Sholto to ask about the case. He wondered if you're going to come along. Are you? SH _

_ I'm on my way home now. Ignore my previous texts. SH  _

_ 'Hey Sherlock. Sorry, I went for a pint with friends. I feel knackered. Would probably go to sleep soon, need to wake up early tomorrow.' _

_ It's fine, don't wait up. Good night. SH _

 

The memory replays in his head and the wound felt fresh again. What had he done wrong? Why was John avoiding him?

"And then he really left..." His voice was quiet. He snapped himself out of the reverie with a tone of false apathy. "Well I suppose that was to be expected. I did warn him at the beginning that I'd be hell to live with, I'm surprised he stuck around for so long."

But Lestrade could see the sadness in his eyes.  "How are you doing?"

"Hmm?"

"How are you?”

What do people usually reply to such questions, fine? Good?

“I’m not okay.”

He didn’t dare to lift his head. 

“John is a good friend,” he hears Lestrade speak. “I’m sure there’s a reason why he did what he did. Had anything happened?”

“Nothing in particular. I was just… out of control. You would know,” he glanced quickly at Lestrade. “You’ve seen how I was, before I got clean and started consulting. I was like that again. I was… ‘not okay’. I don’t know why. I don’t think there was any particular incident. Maybe it’s just the accumulation of everything. Who knows. It doesn’t matter. John had tried to help, for a long time he did, but I was still… and he eventually grew tired of it, I suppose.” 

“Are you back on drugs again?” 

Sherlock looked up and saw the sincerity of Lestrade’s concern. It ached to see someone truly cared about him. Nobody ever does.

Not even John… 

“Not since the plane. That was about a year ago.”

“That’s good,” Lestrade smiled in relief.

“But I thought about using again. I wanted to.” God what was he saying, why was he showing himself. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know what he wanted. “Just yesterday when you texted me, I had the syringe and cocaine right on that coffee table. I was prepared to take it. I wanted to.”

Lestrade swallowed his throat. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Sherlock clenched his eyes. His attempt at a composed response came out as a harsh breath instead. “I don’t know.”

Silence hangs over the quiet flat before Lestrade finally spoke again.

“I know you’re suffering. I was there for you before. I think you need help. I’m here to help you, of course, but that won’t be enough. You should tell your brother, he was there last time, he’d be here again now. I don’t want to see you fall back into drugs because you deserve much more than that.”

“And what about John?” He choked. His voice was shaky, every word coming out in high pitched whisper. He couldn’t control his voice anymore as tears streamed down his face. “How do I make things better with John?”

“I think… I think you have to give John some time. But I promise you he’ll come back to you. What you two had, your friendship, everything; if it meant a lot to you, I’m sure it meant a lot to him too. He won’t throw it all away. Give him time.”

Time…? How much time is enough? A few months? A few years? What if John moved on during that time and found a new life that didn’t involve Sherlock at all? If their time together had meant something to John, how could he throw it away so coldly right now? 

Maybe Lestrade was wrong. John didn’t want him anymore. That’s the only thing that would explain why John could abandon him without remorse. That must be it.

But with everything that Lestrade and Molly had said, he wanted to believe that things with John could get better. They wouldn’t lie to him, so he should believe them. But wouldn’t it be foolishly naive of him, to cherry-pick only the information that he wanted to hear?

He wiped his tears as he cleared his throat. “So what about this case then?”

Lestrade looked at him with tentative concern before casting a half smile on his face. “One corpse with two hands of different DNA. Thought you’d be interested.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really unsure about this chapter so let me know what you think. And thank you for reading and for all your comments and kudos. I never expected more than 10 kudos and now it's nearly a hundred. Thanks so much for helping me through all of this!


	8. Chapter 8

“So the mother's stepdaughter was her biological daughter's child?” Lestrade inquired as he leans back on his office chair with a donut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Yes and that gave them motive.” Sherlock confirmed. 

Sherlock, Lestrade noticed, still looked thin, his once fitted suit now seemed to hang loosely on his small frame.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's scrutiny, more preoccupied with pounding on his head from his breakdown the previous night. Probably just stress tension or dehydration, he thought.

There was nothing in particular that triggered it. It must seem strange in the eyes of normal people, to break down into tears and tug and pull his hair and to feel so much of everything and to wish death upon himself, and all that without any particular cause or reason. 

He had been in the middle of Lestrade's case, he cracked it, all the lives of the puzzle fell into place. The evidence, the suspects, the motive, everything made sense and for once felt proud of himself again. It was delightful. 

Until the innocent tedium of old habits had cost him that rare, momentary joy. 

_ “Oh clever! It threatened to discredit his inheritance, that's his motive! There's not a moment to lose, John, call  Lestrade--” _

And in that moment, reality had dawned on him again. 

There was no John.

John had chosen to leave him.

He was alone.

Funny how that single slip-up was enough to trigger a mental downward spiral that night. Even went as far as having prepared a cocaine solution of dubious concentration and a tourniquet tied around his arm. 

He had wanted to do it. There was nothing on his mind. Nothing else he cared about. 

Except it terrified him that he was prepared to do it.

That night ended disappointingly with a syringe still full of cocaine solution and the remaining bag of powder left on the coffee table. He didn't bother to clean it up at the knowledge that Mrs Hudson was away that week.

“Alright then, make a statement for me would you?” Lestrade asked as he takes another sip of coffee. “After that do you want to join me and Molly for lunch?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Really? What happened to your wife?”

“No look, it's nothing like that, it's just friends, having a chat,” Lestrade pointed defensively, although his flustered, minute expression told a different story. “Shut up and don't deduce me right to my face.”

“Sure,” Sherlock smirked. “Where is it?”

“Barts cafeteria.”

Sherlock's head snapped up. “Their food is appalling.”

“I know but the last time we had lunch she came here, so this time I have to go there,” Lestrade sighed.

“You sure I won't be intruding on your date?” 

“Shut up,” Lestrade tried to sound menacing, though he failed to hide the smile on his face.

\---

They rode together in Lestrade's car as they both headed to Barts.

Sherlock, Lestrade noticed, who usually displayed remarkable confidence and pride even in his stride, was now walking behind him with his head down and arms curled loosely around his stomach. Even with the bravado of his Belstaff coat, Sherlock still seemed small and vulnerable, like a fragile porcelain doll threatening to break.

They walked down the hallway and through the cafeteria door to find Molly sitting in the distance, talking cheerfully to someone who sat across her.

John.

Sherlock's chest tightened. He wasn't prepared for this. 

_ Or perhaps it was a trap Molly and Lestrade had set up-- _

His head snapped frantically to Lestrade, eyes wild and his hands shake from the betrayal. But, Lestrade, his expression a mix of shock and concern, looked at John then at him and back to John, as though unaware of what to do.

So Lestrade didn't know.

And he hadn't told Molly that Sherlock was coming so Molly wouldn't have known. It was just a mere coincidence.

“Uhm….,” Sherlock's voice came out shaky and weak. “Maybe I should go--"

“Alright, c'mon Sherlock.” Lestrade said almost simultaneously as he forced a smile on his face, not hearing Sherlock's inaudible plea.

They marched to Molly's table, Sherlock pulling his arms closer to his body and his head bowed down, eyes fixated on the floor beneath his feet. 

Maybe this would be good. Maybe John would talk to him now since there were Lestrade and Molly there as well. They all knew each other after all. It would be awkward to blatantly ignore one person in a small group of four.

As they near Molly's table, Sherlock hears the creak of a chair as John stands up.

“Right, I have to go now,” John said, his expression still friendly and gentle.

“Oh, so soon?” Molly asked.

“Yeah I gotta pack and search for a train ticket. Harry, it's all a mess down there. Right then, bye Molly.” John have a curt nod to her and took a quick glimpse at the air in Lestrade's direction. “Bye everyone.” 

Sherlock could feel his heart tightening in his chest. He kept his head bowed down, chin resting on his collar bone, eyes clenched shut, not daring to look up even for a second. He waited, listening to the sound of John's footsteps getting further away and the creak and slam of the door that sealed John's departure. He let's out a shaky breath he didn't realize he had been holding. 

The sudden sensation of a hand clasped firmly on his shoulder broke him out of his reverie only to find Lestrade staring back at him with a wordless expression that disappeared in a split second.

“So shall we head over and order?” He asked, keeping a light smile as though nothing had happened.

“Yeah.”

 

The dinner was, for the most part, uneventful, with Molly and Lestrade doing most of the talking though they did attempt multiple times to pull Sherlock into their conversation. They talked as though nothing had happened, as if the abruptness of John's departure was normal and Sherlock's uncharacteristic timidity was to be expected.

How could they not notice? Or perhaps they did but chose to ignore it…? Despite both of them knowing the tension between Sherlock and John, despite knowing that John had left the flat, despite witnessing the way John ignored him, despite their knowledge of Sherlock's deteriorating mental state, despite having seen Sherlock in tears, why didn't they say anything?

_ Because it's not their problem. _

It wasn't their obligation to fix him up, or to take sides and shake John to make him realize what he'd done to Sherlock. 

No. It was neither Molly's nor Lestrade's responsibility to do that. And how presumptuous of him to think that. Because in the end, who was he but a mere colleague and tool to solve cases. That's all he was. 

He was their friend by moral obligation, not by choice.

So how dare he demand so much from them?

 

Amid their chatter, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Text alert.

\---

FROM: Mycroft Holmes

_ Brother dear, it seems we have some pressing matters to discuss regarding your proclivities. I see John's departure has affected you poorly. Proceed to Baker Street this instant. I'm waiting. MH _

_ \--- _

Sherlock furrowed his brows, not understanding what the hell his pseudo mysterious, cryptic brother was trying to get at. Though he had wanted to shoot up many times, he hadn't actually done anything that would cause his brother alarm--

His mind snaps with sudden clarity.

_ Shit. _

“I have to go,” he stands up abruptly and left before he could hear what Molly and Lestrade had to say. 

\---

As the cab turned at the curb and nears his flat, he fiddled at his wallet, giving the driver fifty pounds of cash and dashed into 221b. 

Mycroft sat by the stairs, bespoke suit and umbrella at hand giving him an air of unparalleled superiority.

“Little brother,” he starts. His voice controlled and dark as he reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a small bag of cocaine, the bag he had left on his coffee table the previous night. “What in God's name is this?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think of this chapter :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide attempt

“Well, dear brother,” Mycroft got to his feet and walked a few steps down the staircase, the bag of cocaine still pinched between his thumb and finger as though he was holding filth. “Care to explain what  _ this  _ is doing in your flat?”

“Why the hell are you here?” Sherlock sneered back, his words bitter and harsh.

“And laid out on the coffee table, no less. What, can't you be bothered to hide it anymore? Is this disgusting habit of yours just too common to you now?”

“Came to spy on me? Is that it?” Sherlock scoffed.

“You're an addict and you need help-”

“Enjoying my failure to feel better about yourself--”

“For God's sake Sherlock, I'm doing this because I  _ care  _ about you!” Mycroft struck his umbrella hard against the wooden floor, making Sherlock flinch by the sudden outburst. 

“I was there for you before,” Mycroft's voice coming out harsh in his throat. He took a deep breath and whispered gently this time. “I'll be there for you again. I promise you, I'll always be there for you.”

Sherlock barked out a vicious laughter.

“You were never there, Mycroft. You left. You were there for me, for only a few months before you went off packing. You always leave and there's always an excuse with you. If it wasn't university then it's your government job or a confidential mission or God knows having tea parties with the Queen. There's always  _ something _ with you and you _ always _ leave. You can't fucking claim to ‘be there for me’ if you were hardly in the picture to begin with. It doesn't matter if you can use the power of your high position to ‘look over’ me, or that you can get me the best rehab facility in the whole of England, or that you can clean up my filthy drug-filled record - none of that matters! All you did was use your power to order people around so you could micromanage my life from afar. But you were  _ never  _ truly there for me!”

Silence hangs between the two siblings as Mycroft was left speechless by the hurt and shock of what he'd just heard.

Sherlock's chest heaved harshly, his eyes wild, surprised by his own sudden outburst. 

Was that how he truly felt? All these times, had he been repressing his feelings of disappointment? Hiding the hurt of Mycroft's betrayal and departure with a mask of apathetic indifference?

No, it wasn't a mask. He had genuinely believed he didn't care about his meddlesome big brother, he didn't need him. But perhaps all of that was merely his coping mechanism, like a thick barrier protecting him from his deepest vulnerabilities and feelings.

This, he realizes now.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft starts, his voice shaky.

“Why are you here now?” Sherlock interrupted. “You weren't here for the past two, three months. God knows where you are with your ridiculous secret government missions, pulling strings, blackmails, cover ups, who the hell knows what you do or where you are!”

“I came back to London because there were far more important matters to take care of here,” Mycroft replied, attempting to keep his voice even.

“Oh yeah, and what's that?” Sherlock spat back.

“You.” Mycroft's voice cracked this time. He looked at his younger brother with unbounded emotions written across his face. “John had sent me a text. He told me that you weren't… okay. He was worried about you. And he wanted me to keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock’s swallowed thickly, his eyes widened. Suddenly the ache in his chest felt overwhelming and unrelenting.

_ John. _

“I flew back to London immediately after receiving the text late last night. I wasn't aware things had gone so badly. All the measures I've put up to monitor you had not revealed anything beyond the ordinary. To be expected of someone who didn't want to be detected.”

Sherlock listened, every fibre of his being felt off balance, as though he could feel himself teetering on the edge of chaos. He said nothing.

“When were you going to tell me about John moving out of Baker Street?” Mycroft continued, then lifts the bag of cocaine in his hand. “And about this?”

Something inside Sherlock snaps and the only thing that filled him was pure anger. Anger towards everything, anger towards Mycroft. 

Because how dare Mycroft come in and start badgering him with these senseless questions? Where was he when Sherlock was growing up, when he really needed help, when things at school was too lonely and coming home only to find an even lonelier existence? 

_ ‘Caring is not an advantage.’ _

Mycroft never cared, the only thing that mattered to him was keeping Sherlock in check to avoid tarnishing their family name or from posing a threat to the precious government position he held.

And now he thinks he can march in here and take control of Sherlock's life all of a sudden?

No.

In one swift move, Sherlock flipped his brother and shoved him, hitting his face hard against the wall and twisted his hand upwards against his back. Sherlock snatched away the bag of cocaine from Mycroft's loosened grip before pushing his elbow against the back of his brother's neck. 

“I'm done with you,” Sherlock growled bitterly, his body pinning Mycroft to the wall. “I'm done with everything.”

He released his grip on Mycroft and dashed up the stairs into his flat with cocaine at hand, slamming the door shut and locking it just in time before Mycroft had a chance to reach for it.

“Sherlock!” 

Mycroft pounded outside the door as Sherlock knelt by the coffee table, the cocaine and syringe and everything he needed laid out in front of him.

“Open it this instant!”

Screw him. Screw everyone. He was tired of it all. Tired of waiting for nothing. Tired of waking up. Tired of feeling hurt. Tired of being alive.

If John didn't want him anymore, John - the one person he loved and cared about most in the world - didn't even want him in his life, wouldn't even look at him or talk to him or stand to be in the same room as him.

If he was nothing but a pathetic nuisance and burden to everyone around him, if his mere existence is a constant threat of embarrassment to Mycroft's precious status quo.

If even he himself didn't wish to be alive any further.

Then perhaps it was time he does everyone a favour.

Sherlock injected the syringe full of cocaine solution into his bloodstream. Everything and everyone else be damned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I can promise you Sherlock will survive, although his mental state is at its wits end


	10. Chapter 10

Without a second thought, Sherlock jabs the syringe into his arm, sending the drug to rush through his bloodstream.

He pulled out the now empty syringe before it slipped between his shaky hands and clattered to the floor. Relief and terror washed over him as he could feel the drug taking effect.

God what had he done?

He hadn't intended to do that. Not yet, not now, it was too soon. He wasn't ready.

But what wasn't he ready for?

He _had_ wanted this. He didn't want to be awake. He didn't want to be conscious. He didn't want to be alive. This was it. This was the solution to all of his problems. He didn't have to live anymore. He didn't have to be alive in constant misery and self hatred and be a burden to everyone. It wouldn't matter anymore how pathetic and useless and worthless he is. It doesn't matter that Mycroft would be angry at him. It doesn't matter that John no longer cared about him. It doesn't matter how painful it is to have the one person he loves most hate him and shun him out. None of it mattered. Because soon, he would no longer be alive to live through it all. Soon, it would all end. He didn't have to feel anything. He could be free.

He would die.

He didn't want to die? Did he?

What if John would come back? What if there was still hope? What if he could be happy again? Maybe not now, maybe in the future.

He could live in Baker Street and John would be there too, John would realize what he had done and come back because maybe John still cared for him. It would be just the two of them again. Their typical daily routine of solving crimes and post-case dinner. When he plays his violin in the middle of the night and John would protest at first but stay in the living room to listen in, when he solves a case and John would praise his brilliance, when he cracks a joke in the middle of the crime scene and only John would laugh along, when he would think with steepled fingers in his dark grey chair while John reads the day's newspaper in his red sofa chair; like two people who were rightfully in the place they belonged, when nobody else saw the human behind the facade and John was the first person to truly _see_ him-- what he would do to be happy like that again.

To live and feel the joy of being alive, something he had never felt before until he met John, something he cherished so much that the thought of losing it would devastate him, something so great yet so frail, something he never had before, something he had now lost.

_John, why did you leave?_

What he would give to have John still in his life. If he hadn't been this way, perhaps John would've stayed. If he had pretended to be okay, if he had pretended to be strong, John would stay.

_I took you for granted._

_It was my fault._

_I'm sorry…_

Everything turned to a haze. In the distant, Sherlock could hear someone shout, calling his name.

_Mycroft?_

He could hear a loud crack of a door being burst open followed by footsteps, frantic and hasty, getting closer to him. He could feel his head being lifted from the ground. The ground? Was he lying on the floor? He didn't know. He couldn't tell.

He felt nauseous.

He closed his eyes.

All was silent.

\----

 

“....lock.”

“Sherlock?”

_Who's voice was that?_

“Sherlock are you awake? Try to blink twice if you can hear me.”

It sounded familiar. Gentle and soft in his ears. Something that signified comfort and safety.

_John…?_

He tried his best to blink twice. Did the person notice his effort, he wondered.

“Oh thank god,” the voice exclaimed in relief. “I can't stay here for now little brother, but I promise you I'll be around. You're in good hands, I had England's best doctors assigned and they are under direct orders not to do a psych evaluation and to let you rest. I know how you feel about those things. Your life isn't in danger anymore, the worst is over. Unfortunately I have matters of national importance to attend to, much to my dismay. I'll be back and we'll solve this together, I promise. I'm here for you.”

Sherlock could feel a soft brush of his hair. It felt familiar, like when he was still a child.

He tried to open his eyes to see who the person was. But his eyelids felt impossibly heavy. He couldn't make out who it was. He couldn't think. He didn't even know what he felt. Save for exhaustion.

He stopped trying and went back to sleep.

\----

 

When he awakes this time, everything was clear. He could hear the beeping of machines, feel the unfamiliar hardness of the bed he was lying on, the distinctive smell of the room. He opened his eyes.

He was in a hospital room.

He lets out a sigh as reality begins to sink in. His overdose, Mycroft's intervention, John's departure.

 _Disappointing_.

He couldn't even kill himself properly. The very idea that he would have to face the consequence; to have Mycroft take complete control of his life, the possibility of getting sectioned.

Now even Molly and Lestrade would feel sickened by him. They had tried to help him and instead all he did was grief about John and give up.

He was a burden. A nuisance. A coward. That's what he is now, because he survived.

He should've died.

And yet a little part of him, a selfish part, was relieved that he survived. Because to be honest, he was afraid.

He didn't know what he was afraid of; was it death itself that he feared? Or was it his lack of fear in the face of his own demise that disturbed him? Because the actions he inflicted upon himself was brutal and malicious. Almost like his mind was split in two. As if disassociated, he was filled with the burning desire to destroy something he hated, something he deemed pathetic and worthless and useless, something that _deserved_ to be killed-- and yet he was also simultaneously the subject of that hatred.

Why did he have to survive?

His throat swells up. His eyes felt hot, as though tears would well up but his dehydrated state prevented that from happening.

The creak of the door drew his attention back to the present as he saw Lestrade carefully enter the room.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed in relief, his voice reverberating loudly in the room. “You're awake, thank god. How are you? How do you feel?”

Sherlock didn't look up.

He wanted to. Lestrade sounded concerned, like he still cared. He wanted so desperately to feel that somebody cared about him, no matter what he did, no matter his flaws, even when he hated himself. He wanted to look up and see Lestrade's expression but he was afraid.

Because soon after the relief and concern subsides, Lestrade would soon realize how pathetic and relentless and tiring Sherlock truly was. His patience would run out and eventually Lestrade would leave too.

Just like John did.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the far edge of the bed, refusing to meet eyes or even acknowledge Lestrade's presence as the DI pulled a chair and sat beside him.

“Sherlock...do you want to uh... shall I adjust your bed into a sitting position maybe, if that's more comfortable with you?” Lestrade tested, tilting his head vaguely at the bed’s controls.

“It's fine.” Sherlock tried to sound clipped but his voice was surprisingly soft and weak.

“Okay,” Lestrade smiled tightly. But the smile soon fades and silence hangs over them.

Sherlock waited, still keeping his gaze at the same corner of the bed as the seconds ticked by. His heart felt heavy and his lips trembled.

It felt like his mind could break apart at any time.

“So, uh….” Lestrade starts again, clearing his throat. “Listen, you've been through this before and you made it through. You'll do it again this time and I'm here to help you any time. Text me or call me, don't hold out, I'll be here as much as I can, alright?”

“Hh..it's different,” Sherlock croaked, he turned his head slightly to look at Lestrade but quickly ducked back down. “This isn't a relapse… I didn't...I wanted to k-kill myself.”

His voice was shaky and his lips trembled uncontrollably. The beeping of the heart rate increased in frequency as Sherlock felt his breathing turn rapid and shallow.

“I didn't want to live.” His voice breaks. “I was tired...of everything. The world is better without me in it. It happened before, it was fake but it happened. I was dead for two years. The world continued. You were better off without me, y-you don't have to worry about me taking your crime scene, or discrediting your reputation. Mycroft would be better off too. And John… John will finally be happy because I won't be there to obstruct his life. I wanted to die. I should’ve just...died.”

Lestrade leaned in closer and held Sherlock's trembling hand.

“Sherlock, listen to me please,” Lestrade sounded high pitched and off, like he was trying hard not to cry. “You're my friend, my dear friend whom I care about so much, please hear me when I tell you how much I care and worry about you. You have no idea how bearable my life is just because I know you're in it. I don't know where I'd be without you. Not just about getting promoted into DI, it's more than just about your help in my cases. I once said that you were a great man and maybe one day you'd even be a good one. And you are. The things you've done to save your friends, me included. You threw away your life to save the people you cared about. You've saved my life from crazy murderers countless times and the things you've done for John...you are a good man, Sherlock. I can't imagine a world without you nor do I ever ever want to.”

Sherlock shook his head frantically, his hair a mess against the friction of the pillow surface. He looked distraught, eyes red and he gasped each shallow breath unevenly.

“No….You're lying… you say this now and perhaps you mean it, but you'll get tired of me. You will. Everyone will... everyone has… John has.”

“John is a special case. And besides his actions doesn't reflect on everyone else. Please, just--” Lestrade's breath hitched as tears threatened to fall. “Just hang on. A little further. Everything will get better eventually. Don't give up. You made it through before, you will again this time. I know you can.”

Sherlock's laboured breathing sounded harsh and painful in his own ears.

He wanted to sleep. He didn't want to be awake. If he could find the right drug, he could put himself into a medically induced coma.

“I'm tired.” Sherlock whispered weakly.

“Sorry?”

“I said I'm tired. I want to sleep.”

“Oh right,” Lestrade replied as he stood up from his chair before making his exit. “Get some rest and take care, alright.”

He responded with silence as he watches Lestrade disappear behind the door.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for possible inaccuracies with regards to Sherlock's introspective drug overdose experience. I've never taken drugs before so my knowledge of it is only Google-deep. Anyway stay tuned for Molly and John's reaction to his overdose suicide attempt in the next chapter. Thank you so much for reading this far! Feel free to share your comments :)


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock felt his stomach churn, a sudden intense discomfort that came without warning and the next thing he knew his body convulsed and his lap was full of vomit.

He wiped his lips with shaky hands as his chest heaved harshly at every breath. A new wave of sick were regurgitated onto the already soiled bed, spilling out more bile before another wave threatened to wash over him.

He felt weak and his body an empty vessel that betrayed him. He needed help. Panic started to rise. His stomach twisted into knots, fist clenched into the bed as he continued to retch. His vision began to blur, his throat felt sore. His body trembled by the sheer exhaustion before another wave of vomit purged onto the bed.

_ Oh god where was anyone? A nurse, a doctor, a passer by, Lestrade, Molly, John, somebody-- _

His stomach convulsed again as his body tried to void every last thing in his stomach, though nothing came out this time save for a string of saliva. 

The bed soaked of sick and his clothes and breath reeked of vomit. He could taste bile in his throat. His body was left trembling and his eyes were red and teary. 

Finally, the door swung open.

“Oh god- Sherlock!” He heard Molly's voice exclaim in fright, turning her head as she shouted at the hallway, “Nurse! I need a nurse in here!” 

She rushed to Sherlock's bedside, her eyes roaming to the pool of sick on the bed, the vomit stains trailing down Sherlock's shirt and the look of defeat in his weak eyes. “Oh Sherlock...are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I'm sorry…,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes stared straight into nothingness, his mind was blank. “I am sorry.”

He didn't feel pathetic or shame for the mess he'd just made. He felt nothing. For it wasn't him, it was just his body. And he didn't exist.

He was nothing. His mind, his body, his pain, his sorrow; none of it existed.

“Sherlock?” Molly said again as nurses came into the room, one of them reaching to the drawer for medicine, another one wetting a white cloth through running water, and another one brought in a fresh, clean sheet of blanket and hospital gown. “Sherlock, we're going to clean you up, alright? You're going to be fine, you'll be okay.”

Sherlock didn't respond to anything, merely cooperating with everything they did to him and told him to do. The nurses changed the bedsheets, stripped him, cleaned him, redressed him and gave him a new medicine, placed in a tiny cup once all the mess had been cleaned.

“Clonidine,” Molly explained. “It's for your elevated blood pressure. That's why you vomited, I think.”

“Mm.” Sherlock reached for the cup and swallowed the pills dry before laying down again.

He felt tired.

Seems like that's all he ever felt in the past half a year.

Molly looked at him, batting her eyes as her gaze shifts between Sherlock and his hands and the corner wall and his arm littered with the track marks, some of which were old and looked like a mole or freckle. But one in particular was fresh and new.

“Sherlock,” she sounded heartbroken. “Was this an accident or an attempt?”

He stayed silent. A heavy sigh.

“I don't know.”

“Would you do it again?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you want to die?” Her voice is shaky. Why is she so upset, he wonders.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Sherlock pondered for a while, recalling the thoughts that ran through his head when he plunged the syringe into his arm, the memory of fear and regret that followed shortly after, and yet the disappointment of his survival.

“I don't know if I wanted to kill myself there. But I certainly wouldn't care if I died.”

“Oh Sherlock…,” she took his hands, her voice quavered despite an attempt to sound calm. “What happened? What made you do this? You still seemed well when we met for dinner, you still had a fight in you. So why now?”

Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh. He wanted to tell her off. But he liked that she cared. It meant he mattered. At least a little bit. 

And he couldn't bear to keep everything in anymore. Molly already knew about John, and about his deteriorating mental state. Perhaps she would be able to understand best.

“I couldn't...anymore,” he shook his head against the pillow. “Not with John...and Mycroft...and I'm still...my mind is disintegrating. I'm not who I was anymore. This is all I am now. I was just...tired.”

“What happened with Mycroft?” Her thumb is rubbing gently on his hand. He didn't mind.

“He… it was my fault. I needed to feel that I had a choice to escape. The drugs, having them feels safe. Mycroft saw it. I haven't taken anything but he thought I did. He thought I was a pathetic junkie. Just another drug addict going out of control. I knew what that meant. He would take up guardianship because I'm deemed incapable of taking care of myself. He would section me. I didn't want that. I didn't want to live. And John doesn't want me either. So I thought, if it could end now… perhaps it would be better.”

“Mycroft is your brother, and though I don't know much about him, I'm sure he cares about you. He must be afraid he'd lose his brother. He wouldn't do anything to you that you don't agree to.”

Sherlock scoffs almost immediately. “You're right, you _ don't _ know much about my brother. He would do anything to get his way. I'd be his prisoner.”

Molly swallowed a breath and squeezed his hand. “Please don't give up, I know you're tired and I understand that you are, I would be sick of it too. But you're stronger than that, right? Have you talked to John? Did you try contacting him before you tried to...? If you want a proof that he still cares about you, you'll see that he will reply if you need him to tell you some words of comfort. And Lestrade too. And me. We are all here to help you, you're not a burden nor a disappointment.”

John. Why was it that the mere mention of his name was enough to send tears to cascade down his cheeks and cause his lungs to suffocate.

“John…,” Sherlock’s voice broke instantly. “John won't reply. He never does. Not anymore. I didn't want to feel that... pain... before I go. I couldn't. I didn't want to.”

It suddenly seemed impossible to breathe. Every breath he took was shallow and short and rapid. Too tight in his chest. He was almost gasping for air. And the tears won't stop falling, no matter how much he wanted it to stop. 

“H-he….wouldn't care if I had died last night. He wouldn't notice….He would be free without me…I'm not his friend.”

Molly shook her head and held him tighter. “Please don't say that. Think about it logically, you trust in logic, right? Why would John hate you? I know what kind of man he is and so do you. We both know John isn't the type who would abandon his friends. So why would he abandon you?”

“Because I'm not worth it!” Sherlock barks out bitterly, his whole body shaking. “John is a good person but _ I'm _ not. And he realized I'm not worth it, which is perfectly fine, except that I'm too fucking selfish and greedy to realize that.”

He was tired of this. He was tired of everything. He had said the same things over and over in his head, he knows it's the truth, he knows how it will all play out. But he's too much in denial to admit to it.

It was all his fault. Too pathetic, too desperate, too lonely, too much. 

Molly would soon realize that too. If she kept allowing him to rant and vent, he'll exploit her kindness and exhaust her far beyond her limit. Any ounce of admiration she ever had of him, any shred of respect towards him, would slowly be shattered by his own pathetic state. And in that moment, she would leave.

Everybody would.

And that terrified him.

If he had died, at least part of his legacy remained intact. The world wouldn't have to know of how deplorable he truly was. 

“Sherlock,” it came out as a high pitched whisper as she tried but failed to keep her composure. “John is outside. He's here. For you. Please...talk to him.”

Molly lets go of Sherlock's hands and wiped her tears before getting up and making her way out the door.

There was a heavy void in the sudden emptiness of the room. Sherlock was alone again, though not for long.

John was here.

Was John worried about him? Did he panic, or cry when he heard about Sherlock's attempt, or was he angry? 

Does John still care?

Was he still important to John?

When the signs of Sherlock's deteriorating mental state became more obvious, and he expressed his desire to stop his existence, John had reacted.

_ “Sherlock, no please, you can't, you can't do that again, please for me, promise me you won't ever try to kill yourself again. I can't face it. Just the thought that I would have to live in a world where you don't exist, my stomach turns into knots. I feel like I can't breathe, I can't face losing you again. Not again. You are too important to me. You're my best friend, that's something I've never had before, you showed me the world when all I saw was darkness. You helped me in so many ways even if you don't realize it. You matter so much to me and I don't ever want to live in a works without you. I'll help you, we'll get through this together, don't give up, Sherlock. I'm here for you. I promise you, I'll always stay.” _

 

The door cracked open and Sherlock's heart went up his throat.

_ John. _

He appeared the way he always had, wearing a dark Haversack coat over a khaki green checkered shirt and jeans. He appeared like the John Watson Sherlock knew, geared and ready to go to a dangerous crime scene, the same John Watson who would laugh and smile and praise him, the same John Watson who promised to stay with him no matter what, who wanted him in his life, who told him he mattered, who said he was important. The John Watson who cared.

Except his face told a different story.

John showed no expression, devoid of any emotions. There was no worry, no relief, no anger, no resentment, no concern. Nothing.

Sherlock couldn't deduce him. 

To be honest, Sherlock didn't know who he was anymore.

The constant contradiction between John's coldness towards him and the things people say about what John did. Why did John tell Mycroft behind his back, if it wasn't because he still cared? And yet the previous day John blatantly left Barts as soon as he saw Sherlock enter. Why did John come here and visited him in the hospital, and yet showed not a single ounce of worry or concern, let alone the kind of emotional outburst that Lestrade and Molly displayed.

Sherlock couldn't understand John.

But he knew he had to be careful of how he had to act around John. If John saw that he was still pathetic, still desperate, still useless, John would only hate him even more.

And he couldn't bear to see that happen.

“Sherlock,” John cleared his throat, his tone controlled and even tone, giving nothing away. “I know you need help but I can't help you.”

Sherlock swallowed his throat.

“You need your family, your friends. They can help,” John continued.

“I can't. Tell them. Mycroft thinks I'm a disappointment, a junkie, a drug addict, that's all he sees in me. He doesn't understand-- even  _ I  _ don't understand, John…” His voice began to break. 

No, he can't do this. Not in front of John. John will be repulsed by him. John will hate him completely--

“You do,” John responded monotonously. “You just don't trust yourself. What matters now is that you need help. Talk to Mycroft. Take the psyche test, seek a therapist. If you want help, you can find it. You're in a hospital right now, make use of it, tell them how you feel. You need someone that can listen to you and help you like you need. I can't do that.”

Tears pooled at the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He tried his best to keep his lips from trembling. “I know you can't, John. I know you tried. I'm sorry I didn't turn out well.”

“By I can't help I meant I don't have the capacity to help you, not that I don't want to,” John added. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight between both feet. “I have to go to work now, I'm sorry.”

John turned and walked one, two, three steps towards the door in a steady pace.

“John,” Sherlock called out, right as John reached for the door. “Would you want to eat lunch together sometime, here, I mean. It gets boring in here.”

John paused momentarily, still not facing Sherlock, and eventually chose to continue his way out, never looking back. 

Once the door has closed, Sherlock lets out a shuddered breath he didn't know he'd been holding back. 

He wanted to cry. He couldn't. There were no tears left. 

He felt cold.

He couldn't understand his mind or what he felt or why he wanted to cry.

He didn't know what he was. He didn't want to know anymore. He didn't care. He wanted to disappear, to disintegrate into nothingness. 

In the end, nothing has changed. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and sticking with me up till this point. Leave a comment, tell me what you think. Reading your thoughts and opinions and comments really helps me with my personal struggles and I can't thank you enough for all your support thus far!


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock slept through most of the day. He couldn't bear to be awake. Everything was too much, too painful, too suffocating. His mind was constantly screaming, the same words repeating in his head in a never-ending loop; pathetic, worthless, a burden. 

He's right about it all though. He knows he's right. 

If not then why else would John hate him?

_ “I know you need help, but I can't help you.” _

Sherlock knew it was his fault. His fault for being broken, his fault for letting it happen to his mind, his fault for not being strong enough to overcome it. There was nothing John could salvage. He was hopeless. He was the reason for why John left.

_ “Talk to Mycroft. Take the psyche test, seek a therapist. If you want help, you can find it.” _

John was right. The reason Sherlock is the way he is was because he never tried to look for help. Too preoccupied with the hurt and pain, too distracted by the comfort of John's promise, he never sought Mycroft's help out of fear of being marked a useless junkie, never considered telling Lestrade because he was afraid he'd lose the cases - something so precious and important to him, not just for The Work, but because the cases were what kept John with him. When John began to drift away, when John would come home too late and leave too early, when conversations with John became rare and sparse and empty, the cases served as a tool to have John around. Because solving cases is what they do. The necessity of it is what allowed him to warrant a conversation with John.

And how telling was it that their entire relationship was boiled down to finding a necessary excuse just to talk to his ‘best friend’?

_ Stupid. _

He should've known. He did know, but he refused to listen. He didn't want to accept the reality that John no longer cared for him. 

Because he loved John.

That was his fault.

Everything was.

He deserved to be alone in that hospital room. 

Sherlock shuts his eyes, tired by his relentless thoughts. He listened to the machines beeping, the soft buzz of the bright ceiling light, the muffled noise of footsteps as staffs and nurses walking past outside. He focused on the sounds and thought of nothing. He relaxed his body and he feels weightless.

He isn't Sherlock Holmes.

He's nobody. 

He doesn't exist. 

He never existed.

And he no longer had to exist.

It repeats in his head like a mantra. For if he doesn't exist, he could feel no pain. 

At that thought, Sherlock eventually drifts into slumber. 

\---

When he awoke the next day, it was with a sensation of warmth around his hand. He tilts his head against the pillow to see the hand that held him, wrinkled and freckled and warm. Mrs Hudson had sat by his bedside, waiting for him to wake up.

“Oh Sherlock dear,” she made a small surprised noise when she realized Sherlock was awake. “How do you feel? You stupid boy, don't you do this ever again!”

She pulled him into a light embrace before letting go a brief moment later and sunk back down to her seat.

“Why did you do this, Sherlock? Why didn't you tell me or John or anyone that you didn't feel okay?”

Sherlock was tired. He was tired of the pain and hurt and suffering of everything relating to John.

He couldn't keep it in. He had told Molly and Lestrade but it still wasn't enough. It would never be enough because it wouldn't change how John treated him. It wouldn't change the fact that John still didn't want to speak to him. Perhaps ever. 

And because of that, nothing can ease the pain and hurt he feels.

“Why do you think John left baker street, Mrs Hudson?”

\---

A knock on the door caught their attention and shortly after the door opened to reveal it was Molly.

“Didn't expect to see you, Mrs Hudson, how are you?” Molly smiled.

“I'm good. Thank you, dear.” 

Molly nods politely, albeit rather awkwardly. Her eyes shifted between Mrs Hudson to Sherlock to Mrs Hudson again. “Erm, sorry, Mrs Hudson, but would you mind--?”

“Oh, sorry dear. I'll give you two a moment,” Mrs Hudson replied as she gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze before leaving the room.

Once Mrs Hudson has left and the door has shut, Molly treads awkwardly towards Sherlock. 

She opened her mouth, hesitated, but finally spoke. “How did it go with John?”

Sherlock’s eyes lowered to the floor. 

John. The one person who once made him feel alive, and the person who led him to wish for his own demise. 

The person he loved most, and the person who caused him to hate himself like never before. 

The person who proved he was worthless and disposable. The person who showed that love won't last.

At least not to him. Not for someone as selfish and rotten and despicable as him. 

He didn't deserve love.

He deserved suffering.

John made him realize that.

“John told me he couldn't help me. And that I should seek help. He stopped talking to me again after that,” Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh, his heart grew heavy. 

“Ok, so that's good isn't it? He came all the way here to talk to you, that shows that he still cares,” Molly smiled weakly. 

Sherlock didn't know what to think of that, of the things she said, of what John feels about him, of why he wasn't allowed to die.

“Look,” she tried again, closing in the distance between her and Sherlock. She pulled a chair and sat by his side. “One can still care while not talking to someone. I don't talk to a few people anymore because, well, we had some difficult times, but I still care about them, I just can't bring myself to talk to them. John is the same with you I think, he's frustrated and doesn't know what to do, so he doesn't do anything. He still cares though, of course he does.”

Sherlock considered for a moment. “Those friends of yours, if they messaged you, wouldn't you still reply?” 

Molly seemed to be caught off guard by the question. “Yes I would, but it's been a long time, so I don't expect them to. I don't mind though, if they don't want to talk to me I don't really care much about them anymore... But if they ever ask how's it going or something, I would reply.”

Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath and closed his eyes briefly. He took a deep breath, trying hard not to let his voice break. “Right, so what does it mean if he doesn't reply to me? Is he frustrated because he realized he hates me...?”

_ Because hating me would make him a bad person, and that's not something John thought he was capable of… _

“No, he's frustrated because of how it went when he decided to take some distance from you and now he feels like it wouldn't be fair to talk to you again as if nothing happened... He needs to figure out how to resolve this situation, you see? He's afraid he hurt you and he doesn't want to hurt you again.”

John was afraid of hurting him…?

But this….John's coldness towards him - and  _ only _ him…

That hurts the most.

But Sherlock couldn't say it. He shouldn't confess that he felt hurt by the way John treated him. 

Because if what Molly said was honestly true, then admitting he felt hurt would only drive John further away. 

And he didn't want that. God it's so pathetic and weak and selfish of him, but he couldn't face a life without John. He wanted to believe this tension between them wasn't permanent, to believe that one day they would be laughing together again. And if Molly's claims held that possibility, he would cling on to it no matter how much it hurts.

And yet at the same time, he truly abhorred himself for it.

“I don't understand,” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “Why would it be unfair, unfair to whom? Resolve what? I'm sorry-- I uh… I don't mean to attack you... or John, if it seemed that way--” God why was his body trembling, why couldn't he talk without crying, why didn't he sound like his normal self-- “I'm just confused, I'm frustrated at myself for it, I hate feeling like  _ this _ and doubting you or him or anyone because rationally, I know you're not lying. There's nothing for you to gain by lying, so I understand it's unlikely. But why can't I believe it, I'm still scared and anxious. I thought I've gotten better, thanks to you and Lestrade, I could solve cases again. But then I'd see John and I remember that he doesn't want me anymore. And it devastates me… I never had a friend before...I've never had one like him. And to know that I lost a friend because I'm like  _ this, _ I shouldn't have let myself get this way, I regret it. I regret my weakness.”

Tears dripped down his chin. He gave up any attempt to maintain whatever dignity he had left.

He was worthless anyway. 

Molly took his hand. Her eyes expressed sorrow and pity. “I know and I'm so sorry you feel that way, Sherlock, but you'll get better alright? I promise you, you will.” She smiled momentarily, but it soon fades. “I really don't know what else to say about John, I don't know how to fix this... I keep telling you he will come back but I surely can't do much more.”

Sherlock said nothing. 

He couldn't ask her to do more. It was certainly something John would not want him to do. If anything, it would only infuriate John even further. Just like it did before.

_ ‘If you need to tell me something you tell it yourself or you don't but don't put Molly in this.’ _

That message had broken him much more than five months of captivity in Serbia, more than his two years of fading his death and leaving London and all his life behind, more than Moriarty’s threats of burning his heart out, more than any pain an enemy could ever inflict upon him. Because those were enemies.

But  _ this… _

This was John.

John, who he loved and cared and trusted.

John, who promised to stay by his side.

John, who told him he loved him.

And it was also John who walked out on him without any explanation, who ignored him and avoided him despite Sherlock's attempts to talk. 

John, who told him they can never be the way they were again.

John, who told him to ‘piss off’ when Sherlock kept trying to text, who told him  _ ‘this isn't about you!’  _ when Sherlock asked why they hardly talked anymore.

And suddenly Sherlock found it hard to breathe. As though his throat was swollen and his chest felt constricted.

_ Why, John….? _

“Can I ask you something?” Molly's voice brought him back to the present. “Is it just John that makes you feel this way all over again? Will him coming back help you feel better?”

“Y--,” his voice escapes as a broken sob.

_ ‘Yes’? _

Was that what he wanted to say?

_ ‘Yes, the way John shuns me out is the reason why I can't get back up on my own two feet because every day that I try, every second that I'm awake and resisting the urge to kill myself, every moment that I listen to your advice and Lestrade’s advice and I learn to cope with what pathetic baby steps I can take - I will get kicked down again by the coldness of John's actions towards me, his utter repulsion to even see me, and the way he disposed of me and what relationship we had so easily as though it meant nothing to him. And yes, him coming back will make me feel better because I still love him and care about him, and to be hated by the person I love, and to not know the reason why, is what makes me despise myself and the ultimate proof of my worthlessness.’ _

But he couldn't say that. 

Because that would imply an ultimatum: ‘come back to me or I will kill myself.’ And how fucking selfish and despicable would that be of him. To use such kind of emotional manipulation on John, even though John had done nothing wrong.

John was good. It was _ Sherlock _ who was the problem.

“No, it isn't just John. It's everything. It's... me,” he finally replied in monotony.

Molly observed him for a moment before she finally decided to speak.

“Listen, it's just that you need to convince yourself that it wasn't in any way your fault. John is important, yes, but if you concentrate on your goal, on wanting to get better and better, on keeping yourself busy and talking to people and thinking about your health, then you'll see that you'll think rationally about John too. Right now you're too focused on blaming yourself and that's not fair. Now it may sound pointless telling you this, but it's true, you don't have to think about John. He's not here with you at the moment? Fine, you'll have to wait. Have some more patience about this, don't just jump to conclusions and think that he's gone forever. You can't be sure about it, right? If you know him you'll certainly know that he's a great friend.”

“I know he's a great friend,” Sherlock snapped back, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. “But I'm not. And I think that's enough to make anyone realize that I'm not worth it.”

“That's not true, at all, don't think this about yourself. You're a lovely person, Sherlock. I'll keep telling you this as much as possible. I sound like a broken record but it's the truth.”

Molly's words sounded encouraging. But he knew it was empty.

A "lovely" person wouldn't push their friends into leaving them.

A "lovely" person would be able to keep their friends.

A "lovely" person would be loved and cared by their friends.

He was none of those things.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please share with me your thoughts and comments, about John, about what Molly said, about Sherlock. Tell me what you think about what they've done/said so far. I would really truly appreciate that, sorry for the oddly specific request! And thank you again


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock removed the hospital gown and wore the clothes that Mycroft had brought over. He buttoned up his shirt, pulled up his trousers, and donned on his suit jacket. He stares blankly at the mirror, straightening out his shirt until he felt it satisfactory. 

It has been 3 days since he was first hospitalized. As per arranged by Mycroft, he didn't have to go through the tedium of general procedure for suspected suicide cases. He was allowed to be discharged as soon as his body was fully recovered.  

Despite it though, he felt nothing. He felt numb.

He was alive.

And that felt like a burden instead.

\---

When he arrived back at baker street, he was met with a feeling of nostalgia mixed with sorrow. He looked up the stairs and remembers the first night he and John had went on a case together. Running through London to chase after a cab. The exhaustion and exhilaration as they returned to 221b that made them burst into laughter at the comical ridiculousness of chasing after the wrong cab by foot. 

His eyes lowered. 

That was all just a distant memory now.

A lifetime ago. 

He couldn't laugh with John like that anymore. He was never going to see John again. 

He had nearly died. He had tried to take away his life.

And John didn't care.

_ “I know you need help but I can't help you.” _

His throat felt sick. 

Molly had said that John said it out of frustration, because John didn't want to hurt him again, and that John still cared for him, that he was still John's friend, that they would talk again someday.

God he wanted to believe that. He wanted so badly for her words to be true. 

And yet he couldn't help but see her words as mere empty promises.

_ If you didn't want to hurt me, then why did you continue to leave me? _

He climbed up the stairs, his gaze focused on his footing for all 17 steps before entering his all too familiar flat. He tried to ignore the sight of John's chair that reminded him of far too many memories, memories of John sitting down, drinking tea, reading newspaper while Sherlock sits across with steepled hands.

He tried to ignore the sight of the kitchen, where he would usually sit in the dining chair, preoccupied with his microscope while John stood behind him, making tea as the kettle boiled and he would make one for Sherlock as well. John always knew how many sugars to put in, what flavours of tea were his favorites, John would always make tea and then sit across Sherlock on the dining table as he types away on his laptop and the entire situation would feel so routine, so normal, so domestic, and so comfortable. 

It made Sherlock feel at home.

It was what made baker street his home.

His body swayed before quickly catching himself, letting his body lean against his bedroom doorway.  His breathing turned into heavy panting as he tried desperately to blink back the tears that threatened to fall.

_ John...I miss you. _

_ Why did you leave…? _

 

“Hey Sherlock,” he heard Lestrade's voice from behind. Sherlock quickly wiped away his tears and took a quick glimpse to see Lestrade standing hesitantly at the front door. 

“I heard you were discharged today, I'd wanted to check up on you,” Lestrade gave a quick smile.

“Oh...uh please do come in...I'll um...I'll make you some tea,” Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice even as he stumbled down the hallway to the kitchen. 

Lestrade sat down as Sherlock lets the water boil before joining Lestrade in the dinner table.

“So um,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “How...how are you feeling now?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock stares at his hands, his fingers splayed across the table. “Numbness. I don't know. I think it's just pointless. Everything, I mean. I'm not the same person as I was. My mind is dysfunctional now, it's broken, retarded, stupid, pathetic. I can't function properly. I can't do anything. And I don't want to either. So I don't know.”

“Ok well, your mind is not stupid, god knows that's impossible. It's just fighting against you right now, and you have to fight back.”

“Fight back?” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, his voice barely audible. “What for? I have tried...And tried and tried for months but in the end it resulted to nothing. Just more pain. John left, my only best friend, left, and he never spoke to me for months. Because I'm like  _ this.  _ Because he can't stand me, because I was too weak and too messed up and too insecure and it's repulsive.”

Sherlock looked up to meet with Lestrade's eyes all of a sudden. 

“My own best friend hates me now. Let's just face the facts here, John hates me, why else would he shut me out completely?” Sherlock's eyes were wild and his voice quavered. “When I was at the hospital after my attempt, he came to visit me. He told me to seek help. I think that meant he cared enough to visit. But he seemed... I don't know, almost detached. Like how you would if you see a stranger at the edge of a precipice, you'd feel obliged to stop them. That's what he was. I couldn't read the tone of his voice. Maybe he doesn't see me as a friend anymore, it was pure moral obligation that made him visit me, to stop me from making future attempts, maybe that's all it was. I don't want to believe that but I do.”

“Look Sherlock, I think he cares but some people are simply not equipped emotionally to deal with other people's emotional problems,” Lestrade tried to explain. “I think, maybe for him, it's hard to deal with the emotional baggage of others. So then he removes himself for a while, not because of hate or anything. Simply because it's a lot for him and he doesn't know another option. I understand how anxiety can make you think the worst, but trust me, the reality is never as bad as your anxiety makes it seem. I think things will sort themselves out, you and John.”

“When?” Sherlock scoffed, his broken voice laden with every bit of bitterness and sarcasm.

Lestrade was interrupted by the high pitched sound of the boiling kettle before he could say anything else.

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered, standing up from his seat. “I'll uh...I'll make you some tea.”

“Do you have coffee?” Lestrade smiled, presumably an attempt to lighten the mood. “I've got a long week ahead, coffee would reduce some of my yawning. People are starting to think I'm lazy.”

“Right, coffee.” Sherlock's voice was almost robotic.

He reached for the top cabinet, pulling out whichever two mugs he got a hold on first. His eyes widen at the sight of the mug. One of the mug was a standard white mug but the other; it was a black mug with the words ‘World's Greatest Consulting Detective’, a gift John had given him for his birthday earlier that year. In January.  Seven months ago.

Just seven months ago.

John was still living in baker street back then. John still talked to him back then. Still laughed with him, go on cases with him. John still considered him his best friend. 

He was still loved and cherished and treasured by John. 

That was seven months ago.

His hands trembled, losing grip of the black mug but he quickly caught it, using his body to trap the falling mug against the lower cabinet before picking it up with his hand into safety.

He couldn't break it.

It was from John.

Those small gifts and silly items, it was all he had left of John. The only remaining things that held the memory of their time together. A symbol of their past friendship.

And he still cherished it. 

He still loved it.

No matter how much it hurt.

“Uh...s-sugar?” He asked, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't notice his shaky hands.

“None, thank you.”

_ No sugar. Just like John. _

Pathetic. 

That's what he was. To be reminded of John by every silly little things, and then to feel hurt by it all over again. God, why did he have to be so laughably weak?

“Here,” Sherlock walked around the table, resting the hot coffee in front of Lestrade, before making his way back to his seat. 

“No coffee for you?” Lestrade noticed, pointing his finger across.

“No.” 

He couldn't drink with that mug. He didn't deserve to.

“No tea or anything?”

“It's fine, I'm good.” Sherlock dismissed.

The silence stretched on, Sherlock keeping his head down, hoping that the length of his curls would hide his eyes from Lestrade's scrutiny. He focused on the tiny scuff marks near the edge of the table. 

One of it was a sword mark when they had a break in one day. A woman from...Lithuania, was it? Dressed as a Japanese ninja, no less. What did she want? A memory stick, a fake ID, money, what was it….

“Sherlock,” Lestrade's voice shattered his train of thoughts. “Look, I know you're not okay and I know everything hurts right now. But one day at a time you will get better. Some days will be bad, and some days will be good. The important thing is to go forward.”

Sherlock continued to focus his gaze on the scratch marks. “I have. I've been trying. But…,” he shrugs. “Nothing got better. I continued to deteriorate. And John still doesn't want me in his life.”

“Would you want me to talk to John?” 

Sherlock looked up this time and Lestrade.

Lestrade was sincere. His intention to help was real and honest. His worries was transparent in his expression.

_ For now. _

_ John was sincere too. _

_ But everyone has their limit... _

“I don't know,” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, confusion and frailty written across his face. “I'd want you to. But that would be selfish. As if to order you to confront John. I don't want him to think that. He would only hate me more and I don't want that to happen.”

“I'll talk to him,” Lestrade assured. “I'll see how he is but in the meantime, please just focus on yourself first. Focus on getting better. Do what you love, play the violin, solve cases, take a sabbatical, I don't know, take your pick just-- please hold on for a little longer…?”

Sherlock felt it again. 

The burden of being alive.

There was too much time, too much emptiness, too much hurt and all of it felt pointless.

Empty promises that things would get better, that John still cares, that he deserved to live. All of it felt like a lie. And to continue living only meant that the pain would be prolonged. 

He was tired. 

“Ok.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Share me your thoughts and comments if you don't mind, because it has really helped me so far. And I would love to know what you think about Sherlock or John or everything I guess...?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted two chapters today, this being the second. Just wanted to let you know to make sure you didn't miss the previous chapter.

Sherlock continued to live. He took cases from Lestrade, he went to crime scenes, he gathered data, analyzed them, created maps on his living room wall, and when the final puzzle piece is found, he solves the case, willingly giving all credit to Lestrade, waited a few days until he receives another case to solve and the whole process would repeat all over again.

The cases no longer had to abide by his “eight or higher" ruling. Any case would do. No matter how mundane or predictable or boring.

Because having his mind fixate on the case is the only thing that could make breathing bearable. The cases were nothing more than a distraction. Something to keep his mind off John. Something to distract him from the pain of John's departure, to distract him from his worthlessness, to distract him from his own overwhelming desire to cease his existence.

The Science of Deduction website was up again. He solved cases from there too. Even the simplest of cases, some of which only took five minutes to solve, were still his salvage.

Because that meant five minutes less of being with his tortured mind. Five minutes less of thinking about John.

\---

In the morning, he wakes up. He goes out and investigates. He goes home. He eats dinner. He sleeps. And the next day, it all repeats.

He thinks of nothing.

He thinks of the case.

He thinks of his death.

He thinks of staying alive.

_“Staying alive. It's just….staying-- it's so boring, isn't it?”_

Moriarty had once said that. He thought of him as insane at the time. A lonely madman. How sad a life to be so blinded from the endless possibilities being alive could offer.

But he understood now.

There was no purpose in being alive. Perhaps to other people, to _normal_ people, to people who aren't him - there is a purpose.

But not for him. Not for someone as useless and worthless and disposable as him. It didn't matter who he met, or the friends that he thinks he had.

Eventually, they would all leave. And it wouldn't be their fault.

It was his fault. It's because he is the way he is, that's why people would leave. He isn't worth it. And he would always be alone.

That had always happened throughout his life. As a child, as a teenager, as an adult. It had always happened.

John came into his life and somehow it felt like a fairy tale. Someone who he loved and cared about immensely, who loved him back. Someone who called him ‘best friend’. Someone who told him he was important. Someone who viewed him with such high regard in their lives. Someone who made him feel validated.

From the beginning, it had felt almost too good to be true. But his own naivety and desperation had led him to believe in the existence of fairy tales. That those soppy romantic, friendship, ‘love conquers all’ fiction stories somehow held some truth.

But he should've known sooner. His life, what it has always been, would never see the same kind of happy ending that other people are entitled to. His life is, and has always been, destined for solitude.

He was always going to be alone. And he should've been used to it. He shouldn't have expected anything different. He shouldn't have been so indulgent with John's affections.

Because who was he to expect such things?

Everyone deserved to be loved. That's what people would say.

But that's not true, is it? Because someone like him, someone who is as rude and arrogant and selfish and rotten as him, certainly doesn't deserve to be loved.

John had every right to leave him.

It was presumptuous for him to feel hurt.

So he tried to shut it all down.To suppress all of the hurt and pain and focus purely on solving cases. like a machine programmed to do one thing and one thing only: to solve cases. That's all he was.

And for a while it worked. Ten days. All he did was repeat the same routine. He existed only to solve cases. Like a machinery in a manufacturing line. In those ten days, he had solved three cases with Scotland yard and five cases from his website.

In those ten days, being alive became tolerable.

It was a far cry from ‘fine’, but it was, in some ways, bearable.

\---

“Sherlock,” Lestrade called him out as Sherlock was about to leave his office. “Do you want to have a drink or something after this?”

“What for? I've solved the case, three in a row. You don't have another one already, do you?” Sherlock creased his eyebrows.

“No it's not that,” Lestrade replied rather hesitantly. “It's about John. I've talked to him, sorry it took me this long but it's been one chaotic week with all the cases, well you would know. And I've only managed to talk to him late last night.”

Sherlock stayed inside and shuts the door.

His heart hammered in his chest. This was the first time he'd heard from John since the hospital.

“Okay, so you talked to him,” Sherlock took a seat across Lestrade, trying to maintain his composure. “What…did he say…?”

“He said he was just very tired and going through some things himself. Things about Mary and his stillborn daughter,” Lestrade winced. “Said he's not doing very well. His PTSD relapsed, keeps a gun by his bedside, like be used to.”

Sherlock's eyes were downcast.

In an instant, all the progress he'd made in the past ten days were undone. And he was right back where he started.

He could feel his breathing turn uneven and ragged. That tingling sensation at the tip of his fingers that made him want to crawl out of his skin was back again.

He wanted to scream and cry.

He tried his hardest to stop his lips from trembling.

“Did he say anything about me?”

“No,” Lestrade replied with a heavy sigh. “I'm sorry, but I think, with everything that he's going through, maybe he just can't bear the additional weight of your problems.”

The chair grated against the floor as Sherlock stood up too abruptly.

“Excuse me.”

“Wait, Sherlock, where are you go--”

Sherlock dashed out the door, rushing through the office floor, ignoring all the stares and incoherent gossips floating around as people watched him leave in a state of panic.

Tears were already falling down his cheeks and he couldn't understand why. Why his heart was pounding in his chest, why it felt difficult and constricting to breathe, why he had a burning desire to crawl up in a corner somewhere and simply cry, to cry until he couldn't feel anything anymore.

God he was tired. He was tired of this. He was tired of himself.

He thought he was fine. In those ten days, he had genuinely believed he was getting better. Being alive had felt….tolerable, didn't it?

But now everything came back. Every fear and pain and all the hurt and betrayal and disappointment and self-hatred that came about and revolved around John came rushing back.

And it terrified him.

The cold London air hits him as soon as he stepped outside. He looked left and right, frantically looking for a bench or an alleyway, somewhere he could rest, perhaps somewhere with privacy.

He made his way to the nearest back-end alley he could find before his knees weakened and his body collapsed onto the floor. His head leaned against the wall, his mouth agape, panting heavy breaths as he tried desperately to calm his stricken mind. He didn't even realize he was still crying, tears running freely down his cheeks. It became difficult to breathe, his nose felt congested, and the only thing he could do was sob and gasp at every breath that he took.

He didn't care that his expensive Belstaff coat was dirtied by soil and filth. He didn't care that waking passers by could see him and recognize him in this pathetic state.

He simply couldn't bring himself to care.

And he couldn't understand why.

He had done so well… he thought he had done so well in the past ten days…

Why was the mere mention of John enough to send him back into this pathetic state?

_No. That's not why._

It was because he heard what John had to say to Lestrade, and John had said nothing about him.

As if he didn't matter. As if he never mattered.

His thoughts were interrupted as his phone vibrated in his coat pocket.

A text alert.

\---

FROM: John Watson

_Sherlock, I'm sending you this message, and it'll be the last one I'll send. Let me go. Live your life. Get better. Forget me. I've done nothing but hurt you recently, hurting you more than helping you, so now it's time to stop. I won't answer any messages, or calls, or anything, I'll delete your number and you'll delete mine. It's time for us to part, and it's time to do it properly. Good bye and take care of yourself._

\---

Sherlock froze.

He couldn't breathe.

The phone slipped between his trembling hands and clattered onto the dirty floor.

His heart sank.

He couldn't believe the words he just read.

He couldn't believe that this was the last time he would ever hear from John--

Sherlock fisted his hair and tugged and pulled at the roots until his scalp felt the burn. He clenched his eyes and teeth and let's out a muffled shriek. He screamed and sobbed and cried until there were no more energy left in him, until his arms felt weak, until his lips felt dry and his eyes were swollen by the tears.

He couldn't believe that it would end like this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and thank you for all your support and comments so far. I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter as well. But aside from that I have something to confess.
> 
> I've mentioned before that this is a personal fic. The truth is the things that happened to Sherlock and his thoughts and struggles are directly based on what I'm going through. This story is a fantasy based on reality. It's my diary masked as a fic. Although certain aspects aren't exactly the same (e.g, unlike Sherlock, I don't solve cases, I just go to normal work) but almost everything that happened in this fic are based on reality and represented in this fic in a way that would for the Sherlock universe. 
> 
> John leaving Sherlock, the things John said to him, the things Molly and Lestrade said to him, are all based on reality, things that happened to me. And for that reason, I can't give you this story in the perspective of anyone else but Sherlock. I write this story as a way to cope with everything that is happening and unravelling.
> 
> The text that John sent Sherlock in this chapter, that is based on reality too. I don't know if I intend for this chapter to be the last or not, but to be honest I don't know if I can go on anymore. That text that Sherlock received from John is a text I received from my best friend. The same best friend who I based John off. If you've read until this chapter, then you know how much Sherlock has struggled, and hence you know how much I've struggled. Receiving this text felt like the end to me. I can't find the will to live anymore and I'm not sure if I want to continue living. 
> 
> So for that I am sorry I couldn't give you the happy johnlock ending that you wanted. In the context of this fic and what it means to me, I want a happy johnlock ending as much as you do. But at this point, I'm still constantly deciding on whether or not I want to live another day. I'm sorry for disappointing you.
> 
> Thank you for all your support thus far.
> 
> \- angstlover


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